


Jeeves and the Blind Master

by gracefultree



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Blind Character, Demisexuality, History of trauma, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 62,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Bertie were blind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new fandom for me. I've been reading P.G. Wodehouse lately, and associated fanfics about his characters, mainly Bertie and Jeeves, and wanted to give their stories an entirely new perspective. Let me know what you think and if you'd like me to continue.
> 
> Thanks, and enjoy!

For a gentleman in my position, having a trustworthy valet is of the utmost importance. Fortunately, the Heavens blessed me with the marvel that is Jeeves. My man, you know, and a bally wonderful one, at that. I couldn't go a day without him, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

For those of you familiar with my other writings, you've no doubt read of how brainy a cove he is, and how he fishes the young master out of the old aunt-induced matrimonial consummé on a regular basis. A bit too strict in the sartorial senses for my taste, but what is a man to do? I don't want to wear scarlet cummerbunds every day, nor do I go overboard with the paisley, but a spot of color now and again wouldn't hurt a fly, as I like to say. Jeeves says otherwise, and even from the beginning, a deep part of the Wooster heartstrings thrummed in time with his, if thrummed is the word I want. Maybe it's strummed? It doesn't matter now, since our hearts beat in perfect harmony most of the time. Except when he takes exception to my newest hat or tie as too fruity for the young master to wear in public…

Now, you might be wondering to exactly which position I belong that requires a valet of Jeeves's Greek god-level of intelligence and fortitude. You see, the young master is blind. Have been since birth. Oh, I can see light and dark, certain bright colors when the conditions are right, spot a human-shaped shadow at five or six paces, and avoid running into buildings, but beyond that? Nothing. The world is a blur, and not in the moving-too-fast way most chappies use the expression.

I've never been able to read a printed page, but my Braille is top-notch and I have enough of the ready that I can have any book I want transcribed within a week. In fact, there's a particular bookseller who knows my tastes so well that he commissions certain books as they come out, knowing it makes my afternoon to have a book at the same time as the other Drones. I sometimes wonder if Jeeves has a hand in Mr. Bridleman's foreknowledge of which books to create for me.

Be that as it may, I had a classical education same as my peers at Eton and Oxford, and probably read a great deal more of the books than they did, simply because I could do it in the dark, after all the usual excitement died down. I loved reading at night when I was at school. It gave me a bit of an advantage in class, and impressed the other boys, not to mention the tutors, who half expected me to know nothing and be there simply to play while using my allowance to fund a place to be out of my aunts' hair for a good number of years. Not that I understood half of what I read, mind you. There's a limit to the Wooster grey-matter, after all.

I participated in rowing when at school, since it was one of the few sports that would allow me. I still remember the first time Aunt Dahlia came to see me on the river, and the howl of surprise and happiness when my boat took the blue. It's the only physical activity that ever gave me any pleasure back then.

I avoided the play of the boys, what? It didn't appeal to me in the slightest, and though many of my friends encouraged me to try, I didn't see the use after the first attempt or two. Not after that time when I was twelve and one of the underbutlers at the house I was visiting with Aunt Agatha took me aside and did, well, what he did. He thought that because I couldn't see his face, that I wouldn't be able to identify him. Well, let me tell you, when the 12-year-old nephew of Mrs. Spenser Gregson shows up to tea with ripped clothing and blood coming from places unmentionable in mixed company, bawling his eyes out from the pain, the world rather falls on its knees to prostrate itself before said Mrs. Gregson.

What the underbutler didn't know is that I _can_ see faces, if they're close enough to kiss me. That's earned me a fair number of slaps from young ladies over the years, as well as a few unplanned engagements, but I digress. The man was fired, thrown in chokey, and Jeeves tells me he never worked in one of the great houses again. Though, fortunately, I didn't have to go around and peer into the faces of all the domestic staff, as the man had a particular scent that was burned into the nostrils, don't you know, and I smelled him from across the room before I confirmed that it was him.

Not that I had any interest in the female form any more than I did the male. One of the kitchen maids (or perhaps she was a parlor maid?) offered to teach me one summer when I was sixteen, and it was a bally disaster from start to finish. I was nervous, she was reasonably inexperienced, and neither of us could quite figure out what we were supposed to do since I couldn't see her explanatory gestures. Eventually she put my hand where other parts were going to go, and haltingly explained the next step. I was horrified! It was bad enough putting my hand there, but other parts? I couldn't stomach it. Needless to say, it was a bit of a relief when we were discovered by one of the footmen.

I was with my Aunt Julia at the time, and she was a bit more lenient than any of my other aunts would have been, but she made me promise on the Wooster name that I would never touch a girl like that again until I was married to her. It's a promise I've been rather delighted to keep, don't you know?

But I'm rambling, and there's a point to this narrative, if I can remember what it was. Jeeves would know. I frequently tell him what I'm writing about before I sit down, in case something like this happens. Which it does.

Ah, Jeeves!

This is the story of how Jeeves came into my life and changed this Wooster for the better.

Rummy circs. that started it all. I caught my former valet, Meadows, stealing my socks. Turns out, he was pinching other things, as well as embezzling from the household account. He stuck me for nearly £2500! I only found out when I went to see one of my accountants, Hobby Gingerly-Simms, who went to Oxford with my father, after the sock thingummy. My accountants are dedicated men. I have two, for reasons that for a very long time I couldn't find trustworthy ones. They all wanted to pull the wool over on this Wooster, thinking that because I didn't have an eye for the numbers that I wouldn't notice I was getting robbed. Taking advantage of a blind man has to be one of the lowest forms of evil in this world, and I had to learn from experience that more people than I would suspect would do such a thing. Hence, the two accountants. I have them check each other's work, and didn't tell them about each other for quite a number of years. Once I found that they were both getting the same numbers quarter after quarter, I settled down to trust them.

Jeeves might have called me mentally negligible when he was first in my employ, and Bertram is certainly not gifted with the gray matter on the level of Jeeves and his fish-fed brain, but I have a pretty good grasp of music and an ability to carry on after falling headfirst into dangerously hot soup. And soup it was with Meadows!

I thought it was bally odd, after three months, that Meadows needed to ask for an increase in the household account. I hadn't been entertaining more than usual, nor had I traveled beyond a few trips to the country to visit relations and friends. I'd only been engaged twice. But I signed the check and let the matter go. He asked again two months later, and I denied him, saying that it was his job to make the oof stretch, as they say. I noticed a marked decline in what he served me after that, and the brandy didn't seem quite up to my usual standards. It was just about that time, springtime, you know, when the birds were singing in the trees and the bees were doing their bee-things, that I caught him stealing my socks. I sacked him immediately, of course.

It was a few days before the agency could send me a new valet, and I admit I was a bit out of sorts, rather down in the dumps over the whole matter. I need a valet for a bit more than the average gentleman, after all. It's not just putting me in my clothes and doing the usual domestic tasks, but it's also reading my mail to me, taking dictation if I want to respond, guiding me to my various appointments and social obligations. I can get to a few places on my own, and taxis are a godsend for a chap like me, but if given the opportunity, I'd prefer a preamble — if that's the word I want — about the streets on the arm of a dashing man over being cooped up in a cab any day.

My friends tried to buck me up, as friends do, but in the end, they were rather like the soft-boiled egg that cracked in the pot, for I hear that eggs are cooked that way, sometimes, and became nothing more than a bother to me. No eggs at the flat, at any rate, and I'd never done my own marketing, so I had to wait. I spent inordinate amounts of time at the Drones Club, until I grew bored of the antics, even though they let me enter the annual darts tournament and throw a few rolls during the evening dinner roll cricket matches to try to cheer me up.

My chums thought it would do me a good turn to celebrate Boat Race night, and we all got rather snozzled, which contributed the the circs. of Jeeves's arrival. Having been abandoned by my mates with a stolen policeman's helmet in my hands, I faced down the magistrate with nothing more than my crumpled evening attire and stick. I barely remember getting home after paying the fine — ￡5! — and was off to the dreamless within seconds of throwing the corpus onto the bed. Why the magistrate found me guilty I'll never know, since it was blindingly obvious that a blind man couldn't steal a policeman's helmet, but the Code of the Woosters forbade me to turn in my friends, so there I was.

Jeeves is a miracle worker. I'm rather chuffed, remembering how he turned the disreputable state of the flat into something even an aunt could approve of in just a few hours while I dressed, bathed, and had a good helping of the old eggs and b. He has a way about him of calm whatsit that just relaxes a cove, don't you know? He produced tea and toast out of thin air while I bathed, startling, I know, for I didn't think I had any toast left after three days of fending for myself. I'd lunched at the club most days, and supped there as well, but there's only so much of that one can take before he needs a change of pace.

It was after he served my tea that I began to cotton on to Meadows's larcenic tendencies. Jeeves asked, in that low, cultured voice of his, whether I knew the location of the sugar bowl that went with my second-best tea service, since he hadn't found it with the other things, nor could he locate the honey pot. He then went on to expound that the larder was dangerously low on comestibles and he would have to do some marketing if I wanted a proper dinner, which I did. I've always had what my Aunt Agatha calls an 'unhealthy appetite,' meaning, of course, that if food is bunged down in front of me, I'll eat it.

"Not fowl, Jeeves," I said. "I've been eating nothing but chicken this last fortnight, and Meadows was not the most creative in its preparation," I explained. "I'd like something heartier, if you can manage it."

Jeeves was horrified to learn of the depths of Meadows' deceptions, since the ledger (and the butcher's bill) indicated he'd been buying much pricier cuts. Yet another evidence of the villainy.

That evening, after an expertly-prepared meal and a pair of b. and s.s, I asked Jeeves to make an inventory of the valuables about the flat and compare it with a list my solicitor, Mr. Jeremy Carson-Wiggs, esq., had prepared for me at the start of the year. He does one for me every year, at my request, for just such a situation as this, since having a valet steal from me, was, alas, a rather common occurrence until Jeeves entered my service. They usually just took money, but Meadows seemed a rather persistent sort of cove.

Meadows had been helping himself to the silver, my Turkish gaspers, and the best brandy. I was shocked! How could this have happened? Jeeves assured me that I need not have Mr. Carson-Wiggs press charges, and intimated that he would be able to recover the missing items without effort. I didn't care about the money, I told him, but the tea service was from my mother's mother, and one of the few things of my parents that had remained with me over the years. It was years before I learned that not only did he reclaim the silver Meadows pinched, but he blacklisted the man at his club and within the network of butlers, valets and other household staff so that Meadows would never work in the Empire again for his felonious actions. And, I might add, he was able to manage the household budget so efficiently that we recouped the monies taken by Meadows by the end of the year! Even from the first day, Jeeves evidenced a protective streak towards the young master that went beyond the usual bonds of feudal loyalty.

It was months before I learned of his true regard for me, and how deeply said regard went, and several more months before I admitted my own feelings on the matter. He says he does not begrudge the time we could have spent together when I was yet to cotton on the the real tabasco of the thing, and I believe him because he has never lied to me about anything truly important. Matters of the heart, unlike the whereabouts of a certain tie or waistcoat, remain the one point on which we rarely disagree.


	2. Playing Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Jeeves get used to each other's company and find a matching love for music.

Following my disastrous, and thankfully short-lived engagement to Honoria Glossop, Jeeves and I settled into the flat as master and man, learning each others’ ways and habits. I quickly discovered that Jeeves was an encyclopedia of useful information, and took great pleasure in sounding him out him on matters of literature, poetry, and many other topics. He discovered, perhaps more quickly than most, that I appreciated fresh flowers and enjoyed the varied scents of their nectar in the sunshine. My morning tea was always presented with a fresh flower in a bud vase, which chuffed me up after a late night out. Jeeves’s magical remedies helped as well, but the thoughtfulness of the flowers always brought a smile to the dial. Then, when he turned them into my buttonhole for the day, well, it cheered up the spirits quite a bit, I must say, no matter what mood I’d been in beforehand.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Jeeves shimmers. He moves on silent feet, oftentimes appearing in one room as if conjured from a Djinn’s lamp. In many ways this is a good thing, as most men tread heavily, and Meadows, especially, stomped about the place like the giant up Jack’s beanstalk when his golden harp slipped away with the young johnnie. In other ways, not knowing whether or not Jeeves is in the room with me has led to more than one embarrassing incident.

It was that first day of Jeeves’s employment when I was reading a book, gasper and cocktail at my elbow, when all of a sudden Jeeves’s voice rang out next to me informing me that he was off to market. I must have won a medal for the sitting high jump that day, because the book flew in the air to land somewhere at my feet, the glass of brandy shattered against the fireplace when my arm knocked it aside, and my gasper burnt a hole in my trousers when I upended the ashtray. I lost quite a few glasses those first weeks.

It’s difficult for a sighted person to imagine what it must be like to be blind, for there are hundreds of little things that you take for granted, like knowing when someone else has entered the room. In the evenings, after I’ve come home from dinner or entertainment, I have Jeeves turn the lights down outside the kitchen and his lair, for my eyes get tired and need a break from the brightness of electricity, and I’m not able to see the movement he makes as he ankles about the flat. This led to quite a number of similar experiences with broken glass and china in the first few weeks, before Jeeves developed a way of announcing his presence in a room by tapping his fingers against the doorjamb with the Morse Code for ‘entering.’ We shortened it to ‘ent’ so it wouldn’t take as long, and I’ve long since stopped startling at the quiet taps. It also seemed more appropriate to have such a method of announcing his presence than saying ‘sir?,’ as that would startle me much more than the tapping, and wasn’t as appropriate when in company or out and about.

Jeeves has developed many other techniques and shortcuts to make my life easier. He’s labeled many things about the flat in braille, such as the decanters upon the sideboard, so that I don’t mistakenly offer someone a whiskey sour when they ask for a gin and tonic. He’s made a habit of never moving the furniture without informing me, and has gone so far as to sew differently-shaped buttons into the back of my shirts and suits so I can know which color it is or which style, if he’s not around to assist me. That was one of the most brilliant ideas out of the brain of a man full of brilliant ideas I’d ever heard. Countless were the times before Jeeves entered my life that I left for the Drones with a mismatched suit or a tie too gaudy even for my own tastes because my valet at the time wanted to embarrass me.

Jeeves, as a matter of course, would not allow the young master to leave the flat, or even sit about the flat, looking anything less than perfectly put together. In fact, that was one of the first things my cousin Angela noticed when I joined her at Brinkley Court a few weeks after Jeeves came to me, when she and Tuppy Glossop were in the midst of a row about Angela’s shark and Tuppy’s appetite.

“Bertie,” she said. “You look absolutely dashing. Have you finally learned how to dress yourself?”

My Aunt Dahlia was equally impressed. “Perhaps you’ve managed to make one good decision in your life, young blot,” she muttered, and Jeeves tells me that she gave him a very calculating once-over at this juncture, before sending him off while she told me tales of her Ladies’ Weekly, _Milady’s Boudoir_. Then she asked me to cajole Uncle Tom into writing her a check for the magazine by listening to Uncle Tom go on about silver for an entire evening. With Anatole’s cooking on the line, as well, I sat and listened to Uncle Tom.

.  
.  
.  
“I say, Jeeves?” I called. Jeeves appeared beside me where I sat on the piano bench.

“Sir?”

“Can you play, Jeeves?” I asked, motioning to the piano.

He cleared his throat. “While I am self-taught, sir, I have some familiarity with the instrument and can read music proficiently. My tastes, however, tend toward more classical compositions than to your preferred modern pieces.”

“Ah, well, that’s not a problem, old thing. Do you have a favorite?”

“Handel’s _Messiah,_ sir, or Mozart’s _Coronation Mass_ spring to mind.”

“Religious man, Jeeves?” I asked, my fingers automatically playing the beginning bars of Messiah. While not my usual style, the piano teachers of my youth had drilled the classics into my brain and fingers so strongly that I need neither sheet music, nor even a wakeful state of mind, to play many tunes, the application of a ruler to the Wooster knuckles more than enough incentive to memorize the notes and tempo.

“Not particularly, no, sir,” he answered, his voice softer than usual so as not to disturb my playing. “But I find both compositions most agreeable, sir.”

“Well, then, mix up a b.  & s. and have a seat, my good man. I look forward to sharing the bench and keys with you.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Jeeves shimmered away and returned, placing my drink at my left hand and joining me on the piano bench on my right. I took a sip of my drink and sighed. “Perfect, as always, Jeeves. What shall we play?”

“Perhaps a continuation of the _Messiah_ you so graciously started, sir?” he asked. I grinned at him and counted us in. We played for half an hour, learning each other’s styles on the keys. It was glorious. I’d never had a valet who could do more than read me the music before, if I had something without braille, and certainly none who could play as well as him. I found myself grinning at him as we finished, and though I couldn’t see his face, I hoped he was smiling back at me in return.

“I took the liberty of acquiring a new piece for you at Mr. Simon’s shop today, sir, when I did the marketing. He indicated it was something you had ordered,” Jeeves said as he rose to refresh my drink.

“Ah! Excellent!”

Jeeves placed the music on the piano and I reached forward to read it. Notes and words filled my mind as I read. As I’ve said, I love music, and it’s one of my great pleasures to learn new songs. I sang the notes through a few times, then read the words, smiling at the whimsy. ’27 Ginger-Headed Sailors’ would become a favorite of mine, I was sure. I started playing, with Jeeves standing attentively near me to turn the page when I required it. After a few bars, however, I lost the thread of the notes.

“Jeeves, be so kind as to remind me of the melody, would you?”

He gave a small cough, like that of a sheep bleating on a far-distant hillside. “If you’ll pardon the liberty, sir,” he murmured, and stepped up behind me. He was so close that I could feel the heat of his body through our clothing, the press of his waistcoat buttons into my back as he leaned closer still. Then I felt the wool of his morning coat against my right ear, and knew he had raised his arm so that his fingers could reach the braille on the music sheet. It all combined into the most sensual sensation I had ever experienced, and I felt a strange stirring below the belt. It was unlike anything else, knowing that he was right there behind me, reading my braille music as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.

Looking back after all these years, it seems inconceivable that I didn’t realize that I fell in love with him that very moment.

“By Jove, Jeeves! You read braille?” I demanded, my heart clenching in a strange way that accompanied the tightening of my trousers. I wondered what it all meant, as I hadn’t been afflicted with that particular issue since I left school, and rarely even then. “Why don’t you just read the notes?”

“This particular piece, sir, does not come with written instructions, as so much of your sheet music does,” he explained, as he continued reading slowly. He wasn’t fluent, I could tell, but that he could read braille at all astounded me. My body took the opportunity of his reading to settle down.

“I must apologize, sir, but I am unfamiliar with the musical notations and some of the words used in the lyrics,” he said after a few minutes, his voice stiff with what I assumed to be embarrassment.

“Can’t read — Jeeves, how much braille do you know?”

“I am newly proficient in the Grade One braille and am in the process of learning Grade Two,” he answered. “Musical notations, it seems, are of the latter variety.”

“Well, yes, that’s true, but where did you learn Grade One?”

“I have engaged a tutor to instruct me, sir.”

“Really? When did you start?”

“After you offered me employment, sir,” he answered. “I felt it was my duty to be able to assist you in all matters of correspondence, and learning has always come naturally to me. I did not expect it to be as… time-consuming as it has become.”

“But when do you have time?”

“Most mornings before you wake, sir, I have an hour or two of instruction. I often practice in the evenings when you are at your club, to further my understanding.”

“But— You—“ I broke off, not sure what I was trying to say. A warmth flooded my body, and I felt my cheeks heating as if I’d lain on the beach all day. “Good Lord!”

“Sir?”

“Get me my checkbook, Jeeves. I’ll add to the household account for the lessons.”

“Sir, I must protest.”

“Why? You’re doing it to help me, aren’t you? That counts as a household expense, what?”

“Indeed, sir, however it is my own responsibility to —“

“Piddledy-tosh. It costs a bally fortune for the lessons, I’d wager, and I don’t want it coming out of your salary!”

“But, sir, the self-improvement of your staff is hardly your responsibility,” he argued. “It is my pleasure to —“

“My checkbook, Jeeves,” I interrupted, holding out my hand. I could hear the reluctance in his footsteps as he went to retrieve the checkbook and special cover that allowed me to fill it in. Ordinarily, I would have Jeeves write it out and then simply sign it where he indicated, but this was a matter of pride. I slipped on the cover and painstakingly filled in each section with the proper information, each in its own cutout. I had to hold the thing right up at my nose, but I’d spent years learning to write and I wasn’t about to let something like this stop me. My handwriting, alas, isn’t what my tutors would approve of, for it was messy, but I took pride in the skill my doctors said I would never learn. I signed the cheque and ripped it off, handing it, and the checkbook, to Jeeves. I waited for the exclamation.

“Sir!” Jeeves’s voice seemed almost scandalized. “This is too much,” he added.

“Nonsense.”

“But, sir, ￡100!”

“Jeeves, indulge me. You are the first valet who has ever taken an interest in braille, let alone attempted to learn it, and it makes the Wooster heart glad to assist you.”

There was silence, then, and though Jeeves is not generally a man given to shifting his feet, twitching, or anything untoward like that, the air seemed to vibrate with tension.

“Now, if we’re done with this small matter, let’s go back to the Messiah, shall we?” I asked, patting the bench next to me.

After Jeeves had returned the checkbook to the desk, the cheque to his pocket, and refreshed my drink, he settled onto the bench and with a heavy sigh.

“Sir?”

“Say no more, Jeeves,” I said, finding his hands where they rested on the keys. I squeezed his nearer hand with mine and gave him what I hoped was an appropriate smile. It’s not the done thing to touch one’s manservant, but I had no other way to express my gratitude but with a touch and kind words. “Thank you, Jeeves, for taking the time to learn. If you’d like some help… well, you can come to me, old fruit.”

“Thank you, sir, for your generosity and understanding.” He covered my hand with his, so that it was sandwiched between both of his, and we sat like that for a moment. I almost asked to see his face, but I was loathe to break the moment. Even I can figure out when silence is required, sometimes.

We played for hours that evening, moving from Handel to Mozart to Beethoven to Chopin.

“Is it true, sir, that none of your previous valets have learned braille?” he asked as he tucked me into bed that evening.

“None, Jeeves. Not a single one.” I paused. “You have no idea what it means to me that you’d do it,” I added, feeling a bit emotional. “The milk of human kindness flows strongly within you, Jeeves.”

“I endeavor to give satisfaction, sir.”

“It’s more than satisfaction, Jeeves. It’s — It’s, well, I don’t think there’s a word for it, really. It’s jolly good and corking and topping and boomps-a-daisy all at once. With some ooja-cum-spiff thrown in.”

I could hear the amusement in his voice. “Indeed, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves, that will be all. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir,” he said, closing the door behind him as he left me to my dreams.


	3. Seeing the Truth

As I mentioned in a previous chapter, I am able to see people’s faces if they are at a certain (rather short) distance from my own mug. It was two months after Jeeves shimmered across my doorstep for the first time that I asked him, rather hesitantly, one might imagine, if I might have the honor of seeing what he looked like.

“I say, Jeeves,” I said one evening. “Would it be too much to ask if you would show me your face?” 

Jeeves, by this point, had seen the young master preform such an action several times, the most recent of which had resulted in a brief engagement to Melissa Toothingly-Smythe, just the previous week. It was rather an intimate thing, don’t you know, being that close to and touching someone’s face, and I wasn’t sure Jeeves would approve, hence the hesi-whatsit in my query. 

“Of course, sir,” Jeeves replied, not sounding at all surprised or upset. Perhaps he had been expecting such a request from me for a while, I suppose, given what he knew of me then. He glided over to where I sat on the chesterfield and after a small cough to alert me to his impending action, sat delicately next to me. I smiled, then, for I had been wondering quite a lot what he looked like, and had rather thought he would refuse me on account of the delicate nature of it all. Not exactly the done things between gentlemen, I know. 

I started by running my fingers over his face, across his cheekbones and around his chin. I noted the crookedness of his nose and wondered if it was naturally like that or if it had been broken at one time, but didn’t want to impose myself upon him by asking. I felt the edges of his ears and tested the silkiness of his dark, brilliantined hair. I leaned forward. So did he. We were close, very close, far too close for propriety, but I didn’t care. I was seeing my man for the first time. I ran my thumb over his lips and he parted them slightly, giving a small sigh. 

“Jeeves,” I whispered. “Open your eyes.” 

Jeeves’s eyes are a deep blue. They rather remind me of an ocean, occasionally gray with a storm, or bright with the sun or good cheer. That evening they were dark, like the sky right after dusk when monsters roam the hills and lovers come together. 

I ran my thumb over his bottom lip again, felt the wetness of his tongue when he licked them. His lips, not my fingers. Well, his tongue brushed my fingers, don’t you know. 

Before I knew it, we were kissing, and it was like no other kiss I’d ever experienced. Not that I’d had many, mind you, just a few quick ones with girls I’d been engaged to, and that dratted parlormaid, and this was nothing like those bally things. This was hot and heady and intense and full of a certain _thingness_ that forbore description. 

I pulled back with reluctance, opening eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed. Jeeves made a small sound in the back of his throat, almost a protest, and opened his own eyes. We shared a soft, secret smile, though I’m sure I didn’t know what secret we were sharing. I rested my hand over his heart, and he raised his to hold mine. My hand, I mean. His heart raced like a billy-o beneath my palm, and I rather think he was trembling slightly. 

“Sir,” he murmured, holding my eyes and hand. “Bertram.” His voice had taken on that thingness I’d felt earlier when we were kissing, and it was doing something bally strange to my insides. The tum was all aflutter, and the lungs couldn’t seem to get enough of the fresh stuff. He cupped the back of my head with his free hand and leaned forward to kiss me again. It was just as marvelous as before, and it took a few minutes before the grey matter kicked in and the instinct for survival won out. 

“Stop, Jeeves,” I said, interrupting his intention for yet another kiss. He froze, his heartbeat increasing, even as his posture stiffened. He tried to pull away entirely from me, but I clutched his shirt and shoulder and wouldn’t let him shimmer away from me. “Jeeves, wait,” I said. “Don’t go.” 

“Sir, I cannot—“ 

“No, you’ll stay right where you are,” I ordered. 

“Sir, I must —“ 

“Jeeves, do you hold a tender pash for the young master?” I asked. I knew the answer, it seemed, having just been kissed by him in a far more intimate way than my fiancees, but I needed him to say it. Love between men was hardly a foreign concept to me, as I have many friends who are so inclined, and Bertram has been the confidante of most of them since boyhood, as he never participated in the revels that created the mishaps between boyhood, or manhood, lovers. 

“Sir, I —“ 

“Yes or no, Jeeves.” 

“Yes,” he breathed, and I could tell he was waiting for the axe to fall. 

“Since when?” 

“Since we first played music together,” he answered. I felt like I’d been hit in the head with a shovel. 

“Jeeves, you’ve bally well hit me in the head with a shovel!” I exclaimed. “That was eight days after we met!” 

“Yes, sir.” 

I let go of him and stood, trusting that the furniture hadn’t moved in the last half-hour and walked to the mantle. I plucked a cigarette from the box and accepted the light Jeeves offered me. It was so natural to expect him there, to know he’d be there with the light when I needed it. He ankled off and returned with a brandy, very light on the soda, even before I could ask him for it. I could see him waiting, hovering at the far side of the room. I finished the drink and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray he held up for me, appearing next to me as he always does. 

“I’m so sorry, Jeeves, I mean, what?” 

“Sir?” 

“I’m not like that, Jeeves,” I said, feeling that clarity was needed. “I won’t turn you in, of course,” I added quickly, lest he misinterpret me. “I don’t care if you’re like that. I have several friends who are so inclined, if you believe me, though I can’t bandy about a cove’s name. It wouldn’t be the preux thing to do. Just, keep it discreet, don’t you know. And not at the old Wooster GHQ, if you don’t mind, old fruit.” 

“Sir?” 

“I’m just not built for love, old thing.” I paused, and he paused, and I sipped at the empty glass in my hand. “Dash it all, Jeeves! You’re the best damned valet I’ve ever had, and I’d be lost without you, truly lost, I tell you. But I don’t see why you’d feel that way about someone as broken as the last of the Woosters, what?” 

“I beg to differ, sir, but you’re not broken.” 

“I can’t see, Jeeves!” I shouted. “That’s as broken as one can get.” 

“Sir, your lack of visual acuity is not the only aspect of —“ 

I smashed the glass against the mantle in a fit of rage. Glass shards flew everywhere, and I felt one biting into my hand, my cheek. 

“Sir!” he exclaimed, rushing forward. I held him off with an outstretched hand. 

“I’m not built for love, Jeeves,” I said again, my anger suddenly spent by the violence of breaking the glass. “Beazels don’t do anything for me, Jeeves. Coves don’t either. I just don’t have it in me.” I let him come to me then, let him lead me to a seat, let him bandage my cuts and clean the broken glass from the room. “I don’t want you to leave me over this,” I said when he returned, a manly tear sliding down my cheek. “I meant what I said. I won’t turn you in.” 

“While I am gratified to hear that, sir, it is hardly the most pressing concern at the moment.” 

“And what is the most pressing concern?” I asked, wanting another drink and knowing it wouldn’t be wise. One found its way to my hand, his fingers brushing mine gently in the exchange. 

“I only wish for you to be happy, sir. If my actions tonight have caused you undue distress —“ 

“Just help me to bed, Jeeves. I can’t deal with this any more tonight,” I declared, swallowing the drink without tasting it. “You’ll still be here in the morning?” 

“Always, sir, if you wish it.” 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said as he tucked me under the covers, decked out in coral pajamas. I reached out for his hand, hoping he’d take it. He did. Despite whatever disappointment or sadness he might be feeling, he knew how important the small touches were to me when I was distressed. He hadn’t left me alone in the dark, one of my greatest fears. I still remember the horrifying middle-of-the-night darkness when I overheard the police informing our butler that my parents were dead. I’d never felt so alone in my life, and I was only just beginning to feel that emptiness lighten, with Jeeves at my side. I wouldn’t be able to go on without him, I realized. I needed him, though not in the way he seemed to want. Jeeves touched me rather more than any valet I’d ever had, and I wondered, for a brief moment, if it was because of his feelings for me. But, no, he’d done that from the start, adapting to my needs seamlessly. He knew I needed touches the way most people needed smiles, for, to me, a gentle touch was a smile. 

“Sir, your honesty is most appreciated.” 

“I can’t give you what you want,” I persisted, half of my mind set on pushing him away for asking something of me that I wouldn’t be able to give, what with what happened to me as a child. 

“Sir, you have provided me with an opportunity very few in my position possess. That is more than enough for me,” he added, though I could hear the dishonesty in his voice. He wanted more, and I was denying him. I promised myself I’d take him to Greece as soon as the theatre season ended, since I couldn’t give him the love he so desired. He’d mentioned once, in the early days when we were discussing my needs for when I travel and places we had each been in our lives, that he had a special desire to see the isle of Santorini with its blue shingles and bluer waters. 

“You’ll be able to stay, though? Even though I don’t return the feelings? It won’t be too hard for you?” 

“I have spent my entire adult life suppressing my nature, sir. It will be no great hardship.” 

He gave my hand a squeeze, and I closed my eyes, reassured, however slightly, that I would still have him by my side in the morning. Of his ability to suppress his nature, I had no doubts. I hadn’t even an inkling that he was an invert, and I certainly knew enough of them, I thought, to be able to tell. 

“I say, Jeeves?” 

“Sir?” 

“What’s your given name?” 

Jeeves paused, and I wondered if he would answer. It was a personal question, and while I generally made it a habit to allow Jeeves as much privacy as possible, I felt the need to know the name of the man who’d kissed me so passionately not an hour ago. 

“Reginald, sir. My friends call me Reggie.” 

“Reggie,” I repeated, and his hand squeezed mine rather hard. “Would you read to me, Jeeves?” I asked after a few minutes. 

“Certainly, sir. Do you have a preference as to the topic?” 

“Whitman, if you would be so kind.” 

“Whitman, the American poet, sir?” 

“That’s the chappie! I read him in school, don’t you know. My tutor thought it would be important to my education, though most of my chums’ve never heard of him. Or they’ve forgotten. I really liked his _Something of Something_ , you know?” 

“If you are referring to Mr. Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ , sir, I believe there is a copy in the flat. I will return directly.” 

Left alone for the moment, I realized my mistake. Here was Jeeves, having kissed the young master, thereby identifying himself as a man with inverted tendencies, then been rejected, and now being asked to read the poems of a known invert. At least I hadn’t suggested Wilde. It suddenly seemed cruel to ask that of him, but when I apologized, Jeeves demurred and simply began reading. 

.

.

.


	4. Jeeves Off His Feed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jeeves kissed Bertie... And Bertie declared that he wasn't built for love... Things become a bit chilly about the Wooster Household.

Jeeves seemed off his feed for several weeks after the kissing incident. I tried to apologize again, and he rebuffed me, telling me it was a matter of little import and that he would be better directly. He wasn’t.

Oh, he was polite. He was attentive. He did his job, and he did it well, but there were some small things missing from our interactions that I’d gotten rather used to. The brush of his fingers against mine as he handed me a cocktail. The requests for clarification of a braille phrase he struggled with. The note of sympathy when he announced one of my aunts on the telephone or at the door. The way he _offered_ suggestions to me and my friend’s problems, without having to be asked. 

He gave me carnations with my tea every day for an entire fortnight, and I think that was the most disturbing thing of all. I hate carnations, for they have barely any scent, and he knows it. I wouldn’t allow him to turn them into my buttonholes, either, and ordered him to go get me something more suitable, which he did with cool grace, even as I could tell he disliked the errand and saw it as ’superfluous’. 

I started staying out later and later with the lads, coming home tight as an owl to have Jeeves bung me into bed, since I couldn’t deal with the frigidity about the flat. He has a way about him that screams disapproval, even as he remains stoically silent. It’s rather queer, and not in an invert kind of way. His attitude was so distant that I scuttled my plans to go to Greece without even telling him about them. 

I tried drawing him out by buying a tie so atrocious that even I couldn’t stand it, and we argued good-naturedly about it, but something was still off in his manner, though it was closer to our usual banter. I tried a hat and a waistcoat as well, with similar, still cool results. His heart wasn’t in it, I felt, not as it usually was. I was at a loss as to what to do. Usually, I would take such problems to him, but in this case that seemed out of the question. After scratching the noggin for quite a while, I decided that asking _anyone_ was better than keeping it to myself. I had to be careful of how and with whom I discussed the matter, though. I thought I’d try to be subtle. 

“Do you ever think about love?” I asked a few of my friends one evening as we sat around the club tossing cards at a top hat. I couldn’t see it, but they couldn’t hit it, which leveled the playing field. I might even have been winning, though I wouldn’t put my shirt on it. 

“Love? Always, my good man,” Bingo Little said, for he was falling in and out of love with different beazels each week, it seemed. “In fact —“ 

“Something on your mind, Bertie, old top?” Biffy Biffen asked. Not usually the most astute among us at the Drones, for he could barely remember his left hand from his right on a good day, he seemed to be particularly on-target this evening. He flipped a card into the topper to the cheers of the others. “You’ve seemed positively wilted these last weeks,” he added, drawing murmurs of agreement from several other people. “Not at all your usual sunny disposish.” 

“Yes, well, rather,” I muttered. “You see, there’s this — _girl_ ,” I started, not wanting to mention that I was talking about Jeeves. I might be one of the most popular men at the club because of my affability and willingness to spot a bit of the ready if needed, and my non-judgement as to my friend’s — sexual preferences, — shall we say, but I wasn’t about to discus my invert of a valet with them, or how good it felt to kiss him. There are some things one _just doesn’t do_ , even if one knows exactly which of one’s chums are and are not inverts themselves. 

“She, well, she kissed me, and whatnot. And now things are, well, strained, don’t you know? She barely speaks to me when we see each other and has a rather rummy look about the eyes, like she’s eaten something that’s gone off but is too polite to say.” 

“What’s her name?” Bingo asked. 

“Reggie,” I said without thinking, for I’d begun thinking of Jeeves in that way, when feeling more sentimental, which was happening more and more of late. “For Regina,” I added quickly. One couldn’t be too careful. These conversations were best held in private, if one were to bring up specifics, and Bingo wasn’t the lad I’d choose for such a convo., even in private. 

“You can see her eyes? I thought you were blind!” Boko Fiddleworth exclaimed. Now, Boko wasn’t made of the old gray matter like a certain valet of mine, but even he could smell a fish when it stank up the room. Usually. 

“I saw them when she kissed me, you fathead,” I growled. 

“Why’s she not talking to you?” Biffy asked. 

“After she kissed me, we went to bed,” I admitted reluctantly. “She thinks the world of me, apparently, but I just don’t see it. Practically said she loves me.” 

“She said she loves you?” Biffy demanded. “Why, that’s fabulous! The cat’s pajamas!” 

“Bee’s knees,” Bingo added. 

“Best news ever!” Boko said. “When are you reading the banns?” 

“What? No! I —“ 

“She’s not talking to him, remember?” Bingo butted in. “He just took her to bed.” 

“You took her to bed, you old rake!” someone exclaimed, pounding me rather forcefully on the old shoulder a la Honoria Glossop. “You really took this Robbie girl to bed?” 

“Yes, well, I went to mine, and she —“ 

“Lads, Bertie’s finally taken a girl to bed!” someone else shouted, interrupting me. “Oofy, you owe me 50 quid!” 

“I thought he was an invert!” Oofy shouted back, laughing. 

I slammed my fist on the zinctop and jumped to my feet. My cheeks burned. “I say!” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Bertie, old bean,” Oofy said in my ear, wrapping an arm about my shoulders companionably. “We all know you’re not an invert. You’re too ugly.” 

“I say!” I exclaimed again. “This isn’t very cricket.” 

“Bertie’s _not_ an invert?” an unfamiliar voice asked. “I always thought he was,” the man continued. 

“ _You’re_ the invert, Pussy,” Bingo said, defending me, and I realized the man who’d spoken was Percival “Pussy” Makerscomb, one of the lads just down from Oxford who was applying for membership. Bingo might not be the lad I’d choose to bring my troubles to, but he was a dear friend, to defend me against this virtual stranger. “I mean, look at that tie!” Bingo continued. 

“No, _you’re_ the invert! Can’t stick with a single woman for longer than a few weeks. If that’s not an invert’s m.o., I don’t know what is!” Pussy called back, and soon everyone was trying to one-up themselves about saying who was an invert and why. Fortunately, my name didn’t come up again, and I was able to slip out after a time that stretched on far too long for my tastes. Fortunately, I’d fortified myself with several of Henson’s best martinis before I clambered onto the pins. 

“Rogers, call a cab, please,” I said to the man at the entryway. “No, call over to the flat and have Jeeves come. I’ll walk home. Tell him I’m in the library.” 

“Very good, sir,” Rogers answered. 

“Third door on the right after the double doors?” I asked, hoping I remembered where the library was and wouldn’t need assistance finding it. It wasn’t a room I’d spent much time in, nor many other members, so I thought it might be a good place to hide and lick my wounds until Jeeves arrived. 

“Second on the left, sir,” Rogers corrected me. “Are you wanting one of the braille books, sir? I can send one of the staff to assist you.” 

“No, thank you, Rogers. I’ll just sit quietly, if that’s all right.” 

“Of course, sir. I’ll ring Mr. Jeeves.” 

. 

. 

. 

One looses track of time when one is blind. It’s almost like floating on the wet stuff, with no destination in mind. Not able to read a clock or watch, though I carried one as a part of my couture, time was virtually meaningless to me. I hear they have these braille watches nowadays, but, really, it didn’t usually matter to me what time it was back then, and it only occasionally matters now. 

It could have been as much as an hour or as little as fifteen minutes before Jeeves came to get me, the usual ‘ent' tap on the doorframe alerting me to his presence. I greeted him and allowed him to outfit me for the trip with gloves, hat, overcoat and stick, then I took his arm and shuffled behind him. 

Jeeves ensconced the young master on his favorite seat in the sitting room with a stiff b.  & s. and a cigarette, standing by in case I needed aught else. 

“Rummy circs., Jeeves, rummy circs.,” I said when I’d finished drinking and smoking. 

“Indeed, sir,” he replied, in that way he has that sounds like he wants to say something completely different, but won’t, because it goes against his feudal spirit to tell the young master to boil his head. Not that I thought he was thinking that at that particular time… just that he wanted to end the conversation. I decided to be bold for a change and see if I couldn’t spark some fire in his veins. 

“Did you hear what happened tonight?” 

“I really couldn’t say, sir.” Which, translated to ‘of course I did, you nitwit.’ I might be one of the idle rich, with nary a thought in my head, but even I know that servants talk to each other, and the conversations about the Drones’ drawing room that night would have spread through the servant hall in minutes. Rogers would know of it, and he would tell Jeeves. To prepare him for whatever mood his master might be in, of course. Still, one must play along and maintain the illusions of society’s standards. 

“They spent half an hour calling each other inverts,” I explained. “Starting with me. By the end of it all, every single one of us had been called an invert, which meant, of course, that none of us were, because if we protested that meant we were, and if we didn’t protest that meant we were, and if we said nothing that meant we were, so we just decided that we all were, which meant none of us were.” 

“I see, sir,” Jeeves said after a small pause. He sounded particularly soupy. It was probably the talk of inverts. 

I sighed. Even knowing the topic was likely to arise between us hadn’t helped Jeeves maintain his usual stoicism of tone. That I could read his voice better than anyone, I thought, didn’t help matters, either. I decided to change tack, as they say on sailboats. At least, I think that’s the reference I’m looking for. Never actually sailed myself, mind. It has far too many ropes for me to manage, from what I’ve been told, and navigating by the stars would be rather beyond me. 

“How does one know if one’s an invert, Jeeves?” 

“Sir?” 

“Hypo-whatsit, you know.” 

“Hypothetically, sir?” 

“Yes! Just so I can have an idea, you know. My friends never quite explained it to me. Just said they were, and something, don’t you know.” 

Jeeves gave a small, pained cough. “Forgive me, sir, I have been remiss in my duties,” he declared, before practically snatching the glass from my hand and biffing off to the sideboard. When he returned, I realized that he’d helped himself to a snifter as well. Without asking, he sat on the chair nearest me. It occurred to me that I’d never known Jeeves to drink. 

“I say, Jeeves, I’ve never known you to drink.” 

“I do not believe I could have this conversation without the effects of alcohol in my system, sir.” 

“What conversation?” I know I sounded particularly dim right about then, but I had no idea what he was going on about. Was it really that difficult to talk about inverts for him? He was one, after all that, and it wasn’t as if I was asking for the gory details of his past dalliances. Not very _preux_ , that. 

“You asked how I became aware of my inclinations towards the male of the species,” he explained patiently, as if speaking to a small child. I didn’t even notice he’d forgotten to call me ‘sir.’ 

“No!” I almost shouted. “Not you, old thing. In general. It’s not proper to ask one’s man about that sort of thingummy, now, is it? Goes against the feudal spirit, what?” 

“I — I would tell you, if you wish it, sir,” Jeeves said in a voice so soft I almost missed it. I could barely credit the tremor in it, either, but there it was. Part of him wanted to tell me, I decided, since Jeeves wasn’t a man to misinterpret questions asked of him, and I thought I’d been clear that I wanted a general discussion. Is this what he’d wanted all these weeks, though? To talk some more? To tell me about himself? For me to get to know _him_ , rather than the other way around? He certainly couldn’t have many people with whom to talk about this sort of thing, could he? Was it possible that I was the only one who knew? 

Golly. 

The trust he must place in me… 

“You have proven that you are not going to dismiss me for my inclinations, sir, which is something no other employer would do upon discovering them, especially with how you became aware of them.” 

“You mean, by you kissing me?” 

“Yes, sir. Most men would have sacked me on the spot for such an action.” 

“Well, I say, they must all be bounders and cads, mustn’t they?” 

“Sir?” 

“I mean, it hurts no one,” I continued. “You stopped when I asked, and you certainly haven’t been pressing your suit on me, though I’m really not an ironing board, now, am I?” I laughed nervously and considered what we’d said. “Dash it, Jeeves, would you tell me your story?” I asked, wanting to support him as he’d so often supported me. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, I am rather curious.” And I was. Did it involve the enjoyment of kissing another man, as I enjoyed kissing him? Or was there more to it than that? I swirled the drink in my hand before swallowing the lot. “Another drink, first, I think.” Jeeves returned with the refreshment and I patted the cushion next to me. “If we’re going to have this baring of the souls, old fruit, we might as well sit close by. You know, in case of whatsits or somethings.” 

I could hear the quirk of Jeeves lips as he answered. He sounded slightly less shaky and slightly more under the surface. Perhaps he’d had a second drink? I’d never heard him like that before. He also sounded a bit pleased with me. Had I come to the proper conclusion? Had I discovered the source of his discontent? Had I said the right thing when I said his inclinations hurt no one? They didn’t, and he had stopped, and it hadn’t been at all like — 

“Very good, sir.” Jeeves sat beside me, flowing onto the chesterfield as if sitting beside the young master was something he did every day rather than something akin to an earthquake of epic proportions. I think it was the second time, in fact, if we didn’t count the times we sat pressed against each other on the piano bench. “If I may first speak of generalities, sir?” 

“Of course, Jeeves. You know best.” 

“Thank you, sir. To begin, one is an invert if one harbors a physical attraction to other men, sir.” 

“You mean, you fancy other coves?” 

“Precisely, sir.” 

“But what’s that fancying like?” 

“Surely, sir, you have experienced arousal when presented with certain stimuli?” 

“You mean that ‘stirring’ the boys talked about at school? The one that got them in trouble with each other?” 

“Sir?” 

“The one that had Barky Barkingsworth crying in bed that one time after Oofy got done with him? Rummy day, that was. I was his roommate, don’t you know, and I had to listen to the whole thing. I think they thought I was asleep. Barky seemed to like whatever it was _during_ whatever they were doing… but after…” 

“While I cannot speak to the experiences of Mr. Barkingsworth or Mr. Prosser, sir, I believe that that phenomenon which inspired such an evening is the one we are discussing at present.” 

“I see,” I said, rubbing my chin, only I was pretty certain that I didn’t. I actually had very little idea of what went on in that bed that night, beyond some grunts and heavy breathing, the sounds of flesh on flesh similar to the solitary goings-on I’d heard from Barky already, a few whispered words, and Oofy telling Barky what a good boy he was being. They stayed on for a few weeks, until Oofy got bored and moved to greener pastures, and younger boys. _That_ had Barky crying again. I moved in with Bingo after that, and didn’t hear much from Barky, though from rumors at the Drones, he’s married and working as a banker somewhere or other. 

“For a boy in school, sir, such an arousal is common as one matures. Following that period, however, most gentlemen prefer to undertake those activities with young ladies. It is the rare gentleman who continues to prefer the society of other gentlemen.” 

“Inverts, you mean.” 

“As you say, sir.” 

“I never participated,” I informed him. “Not with the boys. They were rather put out about it for a while, but after the rumor about me and the kitchen maid got out, well, they stopped bothering me.” 

“The kitchen maid, sir?” Jeeves asked, as close to a surprised exclamation as I’d ever heard from him. “You consorted with a kitchen maid?” 

“If the footman catching me with my hand up her skirt is consortion, if that’s a word, then, yes.” I reached my hand out and felt Jeeves’s face, as he’d consented to allow during more emotionally fraught conversations, not that we’d had many the past few weeks. His eyes were wide. “I didn’t do it on purpose, you understand. It’s not very _preux_ , after all, is it? She put my hand there as a way to teach me about the tender arts. I’ve kept away from the beazels ever since. Haven’t touched a single one beyond kissing the damask cheek or the gentle hand of a fiancee, and I’d rather like to keep it that way.” 

“Do you mean to tell me that this kitchen maid deliberately —“ 

“Very deliberately, Jeeves. I was glad when the footman found us. I wanted it to stop, but that’s hardly very _preux,_ , either, when she wants it to continue. You see the bind I was in, don’t you? It gave Aunts Julia and Dahlia quite the fright, but the girl went on to tell the whole staff about how frigid I was, and Seppings stepped in and got the housekeeper to talk to the girl, and she finally admitted that it had all been her idea and that she thought it would be rather spiffing to teach the poor crippled young master of womanly ways,” I finished bitterly. “Beazels frighten me just a bit, after all that,” I admitted. “I don’t think I’d ever want to marry one.” 

“Oh, sir!” Jeeves breathed. Before I knew what was happening, he was embracing me, his arms coming around the Wooster corpus. Normally, I dislike when people suddenly touch me, as I can’t see it coming and find it rather startling and disconcerting. With Jeeves, however unexpected his touch might be, I enjoy it. I shiver to admit that I raised my own arms to return the gesture, holding him tightly. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry,” Jeeves continued. He stroked the back of my head in a chummy kind of way, giving the hair a bit of a ruffle. 

We held each other for a long time. I soaked in his warmth, having missed the closeness, sighing into his shoulder. Not that we ever embraced back then, mind you, but I’d missed the feeling of him caring about me. I raised my head, finally, and looked into Jeeves’s eyes. They shined with unshed tears for the young master’s pain. I opened my mouth to say something, but he closed his eyes again and pressed my head to his shoulder. I felt a stab of disappointment that he hadn’t kissed me. 

Later that night, once I was in bed and Jeeves gone to his lair, I thought of the kisses I’d shared with him those weeks ago, and how dizzy I’d felt. How wonderful. I wondered if he’d ever kiss me again, and I caught myself hoping for it. Wishing for it. 

Would it feel as good? 

There was a tightening of the pajamas at that juncture, and I wondered if this was the stirring he’d mentioned. It certainly wasn’t something I felt often. Not since school, at any rate. I relaxed into the bedding and thought about the other conversations of the night, the ones I hadn’t told Jeeves about, of one of the boys shoving a dirty magazine under my nose so that I couldn’t help but see the naked forms of males and females engaged in lewd acts. 

I thought of the lines of the man’s back in a particular picture, the sizable endowment between his legs, the strength of his form when compared to the willowy figure of the woman. She didn’t interest me at all, and I found myself greedily hunting the pages for a man who reminded me of Jeeves without realizing what I was doing. The boys, unaware, as I was, of what I was looking for, took my enthusiasm for a newfound interest in the acts of love kindled by my situation with ‘the girl Robbie,’ as they’d decided she must be named. I didn’t dissuade them, nor correct them about the name, and allowed them to rib me so I could keep the magazine for a few more minutes. 

In bed that night, my hand moved on my cockstand of its own accord as I thought of those images, and I pictured myself with Jeeves, as if I were the woman, as if I were on my knees with his length in my mouth — 

I hadn’t soiled my pajamas so completely since I was fourteen. 

. 

. 

.


	5. Aline Hemmingway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the Aline Hemmingway Saga

In the end, it was getting me out of a forced engagement to one so-called ‘Miss Aline Hemmingway’ that brought things back to normal between Jeeves and I. That and a brief separation.

Jeeves was almost back to himself after our talk, and though we hadn’t addressed his particular situation, knowing that we _could_ seemed to settle him. Things had settled down so well about the flat, in fact, that I consented to a week in Antibes that Jeeves had been hinting at, mostly by leaving magazines with splashy color photographs that he’d added braille to on the end tables in the sitting room, and had even gone so far as to put one under the morning paper on my tea-tray. Mind you, he read the paper to me, as I couldn’t read it myself, and for something like the newspaper, which was published so frequently, there was no sense copying it into braille, but the pictures from the magazines would be there for me to see the colors when he picked it up. 

I’d been to Antibes before, one could hardly miss it when vacationing at Cannes as often as I did with Aunt Dahlia, but it had been several years for me, and I gathered that he’d never been. Most of his former masters had preferred Paris itself, when visiting the Continent, rather than the Cote d’Azure. 

If I’m honest, I was rather looking forward to it, as I suspected that a week away from our usual environs would do a world of good for us. Get us out of the rut we’d fallen into after my rejection of him, as it were. Finish the mending of our relationship. Not that we were a pair of socks that needed darning, mind you, but we were definitely two of men of iron wills and loads of stubbornness living under the same roof. 

Plus, I figured that in Antibes it would be impossible for him to find the carnations that still graced my tea tray every morning. 

Imagine our disappointment when Aunt Agatha telegrammed as he was putting the finishing touches on our packing, summoning us to Westcombe-on-the-sea for something or other. 

“Well, there’s nothing for it, Jeeves,” I said with a sigh. “When Aunt Agatha summons…” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“I know you’re disappointed, Jeeves.” 

“No, no, sir,” he said deferentially, though we both knew it for one of those white lies he was obligated to tell me on account of his feudal spirit. I’d heard him reading aloud in French recently when he was alone in his lair, practicing, I imagine, and I knew his disappointment was real. I’d wanted to hear him speaking French at a regular volume, interpreting for me, don’t you know, for I thought his voice would do wonderful things to the French vowels. Not to mention the Wooster insides. I’d gotten more used to the squishy feeling about the tum that appeared whenever he did something particularly close to me, or said something in a particular voice, and I longed to feel it again. 

“At least there’s still a beach,” I muttered, and left him to reorder the suitcases for the revised journey. Fewer bathing costumes and more of the conservative clothing that Jeeves and my Aunt Agatha preferred. 

We passed the train ride in silence, each with our books. Or so I intended. I didn’t have the patience for reading that day, and with a private compartment, I felt free to babble at him to my heart’s content. I regaled him with anecdotes from my childhood when my parents were still living, commented on a boy’s journey through public school, told stories of Aunt Agatha and what scrapes I’d gotten into with her. I told him, not for the first time, I’m sure, of the first girl she tried to get me to marry, and how abysmally that had gone. He didn’t say very much, but I think he enjoyed hearing me go on and on for the entire ride. He certainly had a smile in his voice as he escorted me to the taxi stand. 

I knew as soon as Aunt Agatha called me over in the foyer of the hotel that I was in for something unpleasant. Jeeves was nearby, no doubt signing us in and listening to Aunt A’s lecture on manners from afar, waiting for the proverbial axe to fall. He had good ears, Jeeves, almost as good as mine, and he used them well. He often heard more than I did, though, for he was able to walk about belowstairs and get the servants’ gossip, when I was expected to remain above with my brandy and polite conversations and family and people I most likely didn’t know or loathed if I did know them. 

Aline Hemingway and her ‘brother,’ the curate Sidney, were the problems of the week. I distrusted them from the start, and my instincts proved correct, though I pushed them down at the time, wanting to be polite and to give them the benefit of the doubt that everyone deserved. Aline had the harsh scent of lye soap underneath her perfume, and her accent sounded unnatural in her voice, as if it was put on. Sidney had clammy hands, a very weak handshake, even for an Englishman, and an overly-sycho-whatsit voice that set my teeth on edge. Sychophantic, that’s the word. Jeeves, even when feigning his most subservient, never sounded like that. 

Aunt Agatha was in love with the idea of me marrying Aline, and had arranged with them several days of ‘entertainment’ for me. In their presence, of course. First I had to sit through one of the worse concerts of my life. The music was poorly-chosen, the musicians half-asleep, and the audience, what there was of it, _was_ asleep! I returned to the room, and Jeeves, and voiced my suspicions. 

“They’re not real, Jeeves,” I declared, accepting the drink he handed me with a murmured thanks. “She smells funny.” 

“Sir, that is —“ 

“I know what you’re going to say, Jeeves. That’s hardly the thing to say about a young lady. But she does! She smells like lye, and what lady has _ever_ used lye in her life?” 

“I could not say, sir.” 

“No, of course not. But have you known any? Ladies who used lye?” 

“Not as such, no, sir, however —“ 

“There, you see! I’m right. I’ll tell Aunt Agatha in the morning, Jeeves. No more Hemmingways for me.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

In the morning, Sidney and Aline found me at breakfast and coerced me to go fishing with them before I could see Aunt Agatha. I tried to bring Jeeves along, since I know he loves fishing, but they would hear none of it. Then he took the day to go back to London to converse with a niece about something or other, so he wasn’t even around when I changed my suit mid-day, though he’d thoughtfully laid out everything for me, including the sock/tie/pocket square combination. And the rummiest thing about the whole fishing thing was that there was no pole for me! I couldn’t talk, for Aline ‘shushed’ me whenever I opened my mouth, and neither of them so much as peeped. It was the most boring afternoon of my life. Absolutely intolerable. Walking in the municipal gardens was slightly better, since there were flowers about, but I got lost quickly, and they didn’t realize they’d gone on without me for at least thirty minutes. By that time I’d decided to simply sit on one of those lounge chairs where the elderly visitors napped and wait. 

Then there was the day of the napped flints. I tried to tell them that I couldn’t ride a bicycle very well, and that I couldn’t follow them, but they heard none of it. Fortunately, Jeeves happened to overhear the conversation and arranged for a tandem bike, so he got to experience the napped flints and flowered clocks along with me. He, unlike the Hemmingways, described the objects to me, so that I had some idea of what I was supposed to be seeing. I certainly couldn’t get close enough to actually see them. 

That’s one thing that the sighted often forget about blind people. We can’t see. Simple as that. I can’t follow them on a bicycle, because I can’t see to follow them. I’d lose them within meters, if not sooner. I can’t see when they point something out, and I can’t see the flints, or clocks, or anything they had at that museum under glass, and I couldn’t see the paintings. It was a miserable trip, and the only thing that saved my sanity was having a hand on Jeeves’s arm while he led me around and described the environs. 

Now, Jeeves is a patient fellow, and that’s certainly one of the things I love about him, for how else would I have managed to keep him with me all these years if he hadn’t been patient while I figured things out? but even a man as patient as Jeeves has limits. He didn’t complain, mind you, he’s far too polite for that, but Jeeves had a way of expressing his frustration. The night after the napped flint excursion, he expressed it by consenting to sit with me (and have a drink) without any protest whatsoever when I asked him to join me. 

“Jeeves, what are we going to do?” I asked in a plaintive tone, leaning my head on his shoulder, for he chose to sit next to me on the sofa rather than on one of the chairs, another step towards our mended relationship. “I can’t take much more of this! I’ll go insane!” 

“If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion, sir,” he began, wrapping his free arm around me and pulling me against him in a rare show of physical intimacy. I wasn’t sure what it meant, and I didn’t feel quite capable of relaxing as much as when I’d just had my head on his shoulder. I also wasn’t going to mention it and possibly destroy what little peace we’d carved out between us. “But perhaps a day at the races tomorrow would improve your spirits?” 

“I say, that’s a corking idea! Can you make the arrangements?” 

“I have already taken the liberty of ordering a hamper and hiring a car, sir,” he said, and I could hear the pleased smirk on his lips. He enjoyed anticipating my needs almost as much as I enjoyed him doing it. I sighed and allowed myself to relax against him. We hadn’t been this close since the kissing incident, and even then it had only been our hands and lips touching. Though he had held me that one time, however briefly, when we discussed the parlormaid, hadn’t he? This full-body contact was a new situation for us, and I found myself enjoying it immensely. 

“Could we stay here like this for a little while, Jeeves?” I asked softly. “I find myself enjoying it.” 

“Of course, sir. We have an hour before I must dress you for dinner.” 

“Will they be there, do you think?” 

“The Hemmingways, sir? Most assuredly. Your aunt has taken quite a shine to them, after all, sir.” 

“Oh.” I closed my eyes. He rubbed up and down my arm, and I felt him swallow the last of his drink and set aside his glass before taking mine. I must have dozed, then, for when I woke, my head was resting in Jeeves’s lap, with his hand on my head, idly stroking my hair as if he had nothing better to do in the world. I blinked a few times and sat up, struggling to get my bearings. I reached out and cupped Jeeves’s face with both hands. I wasn’t sure what I intended by the gesture. Part of me just wanted to touch him kindly, as he’d been doing to me while I slept. I stroked my thumbs along his cheekbones. I knew he liked that. Part of me wanted to kiss him, though I knew I didn’t have it in me to be that forward. Perhaps he would kiss me? 

He seemed startled, but behind that, there was an expression of pure contentment on his face that made my heart beat faster in my chest. Was he content just being in my presence while I slept? Was that enough for him? Were these small touches that were finding their way back into our daily interactions a good thing for him? For me? Looking back, I realize that holding his face like that was much more than a ‘small touch.’ As was sleeping with my head in his lap, or even leaning against him. He tells me that me putting my head on his shoulder was the moment he became convinced I might someday return his affections. 

At the time, however, I wasn’t ready to face what my actions were implying, so I smiled at him and rested my forehead against his. His hand, meanwhile, had slipped to my waist. 

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I murmured. 

“You’re welcome, sir,” he answered. He gave my side a squeeze with his hand and eased me back so he could rise. “I shall prepare your bath.” 

.

.

.

We had an excellent day at the racetrack. Jeeves, miracle-worker that he is, arranged with a few of the stable owners for me to meet the horses before the races, on account of me not being able to see. The owners thought it was quite the novelty to have a blind man interested in their horses, and I petted faces, fed sugar cubes, and scratched behind ears as much as I wanted. Animals rarely cared that I couldn’t see. 

And if I could use my infirmity to improve my situation a little, why not? It was the same thing as Corky Cochran’s aunt using her belief she was dying to get him to do as she wished. I didn’t know Corky yet, but the idea’s sound, I think. 

One gets so tired of being pitied. 

Jeeves, beside me the entire way, had a (subtle) look at the animals as well, and his predictions for the winners were spot-on. There were a few surprises, as there always are, but overall we did well. He, too, it seemed, was put out by the condescending attitudes of the owners as they showed me their horses, and had added larger sums to our bets than I had asked of him, just to get back at them when we won. I may be blind, but I’m not stupid, as Jeeves knows best of all. I attempted to split the winnings with him, but he would hear none of it. Instead I had him keep track of the numbers for me, so that when the time came he would get an exceedingly generous Christmas bonus. Not that I told him why I wanted him to track the numbers, of course. 

Another happiness of going to the races was avoiding both my Aunt Agatha _and_ the Hemmingways. Neither would set foot at the track, or so I thought, though my Aunt Dahlia had been known to put down a flutter or two. She used to ride with the Quorn and Pytchley in her younger days, after all, before she married my Uncle Tom. Jeeves informed me that he saw Sidney selling tips when he went to place our wagers, but I couldn’t credit that. Men of the cloth didn’t sell tips! They might place a bet or two, but selling tips didn’t exactly go along with their whole ‘men of God’ thinggummy, don’t you know. 

And the third thing about the races that I enjoyed so much? Jeeves ate with me. At the flat, he always eats in the kitchen before or after I have my own meal, and when we’re traveling he eats with the other servants, of course, but that day he sat with me on a folding chair and shared the champagne and cucumber sandwiches. We chatted of this and that, and the whole thing felt rather chummy. 

In some ways, he felt more like a friend than my friends at the Drone’s Club. I didn’t have to put on the act of Perpetually Happy Bertie with him that everyone expects. I could complain about not being able to see the horses run, or the clocks the day before. He informed me that I wasn’t missing very much in terms of the clocks. They’d horrified his sensibilities quite a bit, he admitted, something I doubt he’d feel bold enough to say to another employer. Be that as it may, I could be more of myself with him, in a way I couldn’t with my friends or family. Or any other servants. Even past valets hadn’t been comfortable when I allowed them to hear some of my more maudlin musings. 

Jeeves was different. He listened. He offered sympathy when I needed it, but never pitied me, even when I begged for some on rough days. He expected me to be exactly who I was, even if I wasn’t always happy. He allowed me those little lies I told myself sometimes, since more often than not, I admitted they were lies after a bit of reflection. 

Jeeves liked me, I thought, and not just because he fancied himself in love with me. He actually liked who I was. Me, not the mask. You have no idea how refreshing that was! 

.

.

.

Jeeves was due to return two hours after leaving me in the sand, all but my head buried. I looked forward to a quiet doze in the sun, enjoying the warmth. Afterwards, I planned on having Jeeves read to me while I bathed. I smiled, thinking of the treat it would be for him to be allowed to gaze at me while I soaked. Little things, I reminded myself. Give him little things to keep him content, and all will be well. 

I wasn’t thinking of what this meant for my own psychology, to offer my body as a sculpture upon which his eyes would feast. The Hemmingways broke into my fantasy of Jeeves leaning over the bath to run soapy hands all over my body with crying and wailing and complaints of losing money at the races. Generous cove that I am, I offered to lend them the cash. It would get them out of my hair for the afternoon, I surmised, and perhaps I could have my bath early? 

It was that thought alone that comforted me as Sidney dug me free and then dragged me back to the hotel almost before I could don my dressing gown and grab my stick. Aline didn’t stop crying or talking the entire time, either blaming her brother for the losses or praising my generosity for offering to help them. Aline, supposedly a gentile, innocent lady who played the organ with the church choir, didn’t have anything to say about seeing her presumptive fiancee in only his bathing costume before the first kiss had even been exchanged. I wrote out the blasted receipt she requested grudgingly, and informed Jeeves I wanted a bath as soon as they were gone. 

“Would you do us a good turn and wash the back, old thing?” I asked as I settled into the warm water. “I want to be sure I’ve gotten all the sand off.” 

“Shall I assist with your hair as well, sir?” he queried. Though Jeeves routinely shaved me, he’d never offered to wash my hair before, and it wasn’t something I’d thought to ask for. I thought about it for the shortest of moments before agreeing. It sounded like a good experience to try out, at least once, I informed him. “Very good, sir.” 

I felt that ‘stirring’ as he rubbed circles on my head in a very pleasing manner, the subtle scent of my preferred shampoo relaxing me. I might have even groaned softly, it felt so good to have his fingers on my scalp. 

“I say, Jeeves, why haven’t I had you do this before?” I asked dreamily, drifting on sensations and a pronounced lack of thoughts. 

“I really couldn’t say, sir,” he responded, and I could tell from the sound of his voice that his face was turned away from me. Did that mean he wasn’t looking at me? That he wasn’t admiring me, on full display in front of him? Was something the matter with me? Was I ugly, as Offy Prosser said that time at the Drones? Had he lost interest? 

No, I chided myself. He’s just maintaining my modesty, as he always does. Besides, I’m not an invert, to want his attention like that. 

.

.

.

I was sitting on the stool in the bathroom wearing my dressing gown as Jeeves tended to my nails, damaged in the sand, don’t you know, when I realized with shame what I’d been doing in the bath. I’d wanted him to see me. I’d wanted him to see me _naked_. Worse, I’d wanted him to see the stirring… 

How low was I, thinking to — to _tease_ him like that? To deliberately show him what he couldn’t have? 

But how would he ‘have’ me, anyway? Would it be like the kissing? Soft and sweet and a balm for my soul? Or would it be something else entirely? Something closer to what that underbutler did? 

No! No, Jeeves wouldn’t do anything like that, even if I provoked him. He cared about me. He liked me. 

Hell, he probably loved me. 

I hoped he loved me. 

But how could he love someone like me? Someone willing to manipulate him so obviously? Was that why he hadn’t been looking? Was that — 

“Sir? Sir, have I hurt you?” 

I blinked back the tears silently streaming down my cheeks and pulled my hand from his. He hadn’t yet finished buffing all the nails, but I needed to wipe at my eyes. 

“Sand, Jeeves. It’s just sand,” I told him. 

“I’ll prepare a cool compress, sir, to assist in removing it,” he offered, though I could tell by his tone that he knew it was more than sand in my eyes that had them watering so. Still, he allowed me my illusion, and I cried, my cheeks hot with shame and anger at myself. 

“I would be alone, Jeeves,” I said, holding the cool cloth to my face. 

“Very good, sir. Shall I finish your nails at another time?” 

“Oh, blast it, Jeeves! This is no time to be talking about nails. Go!” 

“Very good, sir,” he agreed soupily, rising from where he knelt before me. 

I listened to him moving about the bedroom, setting out my evening wear, making sure there was no lint, even though he’d do it again before escorting me to the dining room. Jeeves is an organized man, with set ways of going about his tasks, and though he tries to do them as silently and efficiently as possible, he is not actually _silent_. I am used to the sounds he makes doing his various tasks, and that night I could tell that he was lingering over my clothing. Perhaps he was listening for my continued tears? Perhaps he wanted to be on-hand, should I need him? 

It struck me then that perhaps he was concerned about the young master’s state of mind, and deliberately hesitating so that he would be nearby in case I wished to speak to him about whatever was causing my upset. I frequently did, after all, as there was rarely a problem I didn’t plunk down at his feet as soon as I became aware of it. I felt a fresh wave of guilt and shame then, for I was causing the break in his routine. I was causing him discomfort. I was causing him to worry. I cleaned my face, stiffened my upper lip, and called out to him. 

“Jeeves! Come finish these nails! Aunt Agatha will be cross with me if I’m late to dinner.” 

“As you wish, sir,” he said, gliding back into the room. He got on one knee before me and resumed buffing my nails without another word. 

“I’m sorry, Jeeves,” I said. 

“There’s no need to apologize, sir,” he responded. 

“There is, Jeeves. About the bath…” He froze, the emory board hovering over my hand. “I shouldn’t have asked that of you,” I finished lamely, unable to articulate my real feelings. “Washing my hair, I mean. It’s just not the thing, you know.” 

“Attending to my master in the bath is a part of my duties, sir,” he reminded me gently. 

“Oh, ah, well,” I mumbled, and he resumed his work. 

Soon enough I was dressed, my face scrubbed and slightly pink, though no longer puffy from tears. Jeeves walked a thoughtful Bertram to the dining room that evening, and I admit I was rather quieter than my usual. Chattering with him about the Hemmingways or the beach or the races didn’t seem appropriate, given the circs. 

.

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	6. Hemmingways and Biffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In trying to get away from Aline Hemmingway, Bertie runs into an old school chum. They have a heart-to-heart.

I pondered my interest in Jeeves’s interest in me all throughout dinner, which led to me being so distracted by my thoughts that I agreed to attend a local ‘theatrical production’ that evening, which I would have slept through if Aunt Agatha hadn’t prodded me in the ribs every few minutes. Aline ‘enjoyed’ herself, though her laugh seemed hollow and rather forced. Sidney’s simpering impression of a laugh disgusted me. Aunt Agatha was the only one of the four of us who actually paid attention to the play, I believe. Jeeves, the lucky dog, remained back at the hotel.

I was still pondering my questions the following morning as I walked aimlessly beside the beach, my hand on Jeeves’s arm, my stick tap-tapping away, when he leaned over to inform me that my friend, ‘a Mr. Charles Biffen,’ was standing in the middle of the street looking lost. He didn’t seem particularly interested, and if I’d thought about it, I’d have noticed that he didn’t want to mention Biffy, let alone facilitate me speaking to him, but he’s got too much of the feudal spirit to keep me in the dark about a friend’s presence nearby. 

“Good Lord! Biffy!” I exclaimed. I was overjoyed, and had hoped he’d turn up after Jeeves told me he’d telephoned a few days before. “Biffy!” I called, raising my hand and stick to give him a good solid wave. “His hotel, the whatsit, where is it from here?” I hissed at Jeeves. 

“The Hotel Riviera, sir,” he reminded me, turning my shoulders and pausing while I got my feet pointed in the proper direction. “If you walk three blocks at twelve o’clock, sir, it will be on your right, across the street,” he informed me. “Perhaps Mr. Biffin will recognize it.” 

My left foot planted to keep my orientation, I turned the rest of my body to wave again at my friend. “Biffy, old top, over here!” I could hear the car horns as he crossed the street, heedless of traffic. So like Biffy: floating in his own world, unaware of dangers around him. “I’ll take a cab back, Jeeves,” I told the man. “Should be back for tea, I wager. See that there’s something in.” 

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said, and shimmered off. 

“What ho, Bertie!” Biffy exclaimed, giving me a pat on the arm in greeting. 

“What ho, Biffy!” 

“Bertie, it’s so good to see you! I was looking all over for you.” 

“You were? You could have just come by my hotel.” 

“I forgot where you were staying.” 

“Ah. Well, shall we go have a drink? Yours is closer, I believe.” 

“That’s fine, but I can’t remember where mine is, either. I’ve been wandering for hours. I think it has some big doors, or something. I’d know it if I saw it.” 

“The Hotel Riviera. It’s this way,” I informed him, pointing. We started walking, and he easily fell into step in front of me, offering an arm, content to let me lead from behind as we did so often at school when I knew where we were going and he didn’t. Of a necessity, I had to have good skills with mental maps and keeping track of where things were in relation to other things. Normally, I wouldn’t do this sort of thing, for the point of having a sighted guide is for them to lead me and keep me from falling in potholes and whatnots, but with Biffy, who can’t remember directions to save his life, he kept us safe while I directed us. Biffy was one of my closer friends, and it was always good to talk to him alone, away from the other Drones. He might not have a very good memory, but he had a good heart, and could always be counted on when times were difficult. 

“I’m in a bit of a bind, Bertie, old man,” he said as we walked. “I met a girl, you see, and I want to marry her, but I’ve lost her.” 

“What do you mean, lost her? You had a fight?” 

“No, I mean I _lost_ her. The last time I saw her was last year at the customs shed in New York!” 

“Oh,” I said, pausing. “Well, can you find her? Look her up?” 

By this point we’d found his hotel and were enjoying cocktails near the bar. Rather good cocktails, for the area, I noted. 

“That’s the problem, I forgot her name, too!” 

“Biffy,” I groaned, putting my head in my hands. “You can’t have forgotten _her_ name?” 

“Just her surname. Her Christian name is Mabel.” 

“She’s not a waitress, is she?” I asked, thinking of one of the women Bingo Little fell for at one point or another. 

“A waitress? What are you going on about? I told you she was on the stage!” 

I smiled, for he hadn’t told me that, but no matter. We talked for a few more minutes before I said I’d take the problem to Jeeves. 

“Speaking of Jeeves,” I started, “I’m having a bit of a bother, and I can’t go to him about it.” 

“Something you can’t go to Jeeves about? I’m all ears, old thing,” Biffy said, ordering us another round of drinks. 

“It’s, well, it’s a rather private thing, don’t you know,” I explained. Biffy, though not an invert himself, was one of the people I thought would best be able to listen. He has a good heart, after all, and I couldn’t imagine him causing trouble for anyone, let alone an old school friend like me. And besides, he might forget all about it… 

“So, tell all,” he said, once we were ensconced in his room. Not as lavish as mine, but neither of us care about that kind of thing. He’d chattered on about Mabel for a quite a while when I wasn’t ready to talk at the bar while we finished our drinks, so I knew of his aspirations for a ‘solid middle-class’ wife. He’d probably get a job to support what children they’d have, and of my friends, I thought he might actually enjoy it. If he could remember where he worked and what he did. I’m not slighting my friend, you understand, just reporting on past experiences with him. 

“You remember what happened at school?” I asked. “That stuff I never partook of?” 

Biffy looked at me blankly. I could tell just from the silence. I know his looks, as I’ve been friends with him for so many years, and as a youngster I didn’t think anything about getting in anyone’s face to see them. They didn’t think anything of it, either. 

“The stuff at night?” I added, hoping that was enough to jog what memory he had. Even to an old school friend one couldn’t quite blurt out the real truth of this particular matter. We were gentlemen, after all. 

“Um, that stuff at night?” He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “At night? Oh. Oh! _That!_ ” 

“Right, _that_.” 

“What of it?” 

“You, um, you…” 

“Sure. Didn’t everyone? Well, not you, old fruit. But everyone else at least tried it. Part of the Eton tradition, don’t you know.” He paused, and leaned forward to peer at my face. “Oh. Oh! You’re feeling it, aren’t you? Is that what this is about?” 

“Well…” 

“Just try it a few times and it’ll go away,” he declared. 

“Try it?” I gasped. 

“Well, sure. Find someone who’s still doing it and try it out. I’m pretty sure Ginger Winships’s still on that team, at least sometimes. Maybe Mitchie? Not Oofy, though. He might’ve been one of the best back in the day, but he’d never hear of it now.” 

“You think it’s that easy?” 

Biffy shrugged. “It’ll get you ready for whomever you’re going to marry,” he said. “Women don’t say it, but they like a man who knows a bit about the bedroom. And before you say it, a stallion’s nothing like a filly, but there’s enough that’s the same, at least from the one direction, that it’ll make all the difference to have done it.” 

I made a strangled sound of some kind. 

“Didn’t work with that girl from before, did it?” he asked, surprising me with his memory. “What was her name? Robbie? Bobbie?” 

“Robbie,” I said, my voice a faint whisper. “Things are a bit better, but it’s a deuced difficult situation.” 

“Jeeves can’t smooth the way with her?” 

“Jeeves has been a bit cool towards me since this all started,” I admitted. 

“What? He doesn’t approve? Does he think she’s below you? Come on, that shouldn’t matter! Your uncle married a barmaid, didn’t he? And him being Lord Yaxley!” 

“Uncle George? Yes, and he’s happy as a clam. No, I think Jeeves is very, um, traditional, I guess you could say. He frowns upon anything hinting at impropriety. Look at what he’s done to my wardrobe!” 

Buffy nodded sympathetically. “I rather liked that pink tie of yours,” he commented. 

“Yes, well, Jeeves didn’t, and it’s gone now, burned or buried or torn. He always finds ways of getting what he wants.” I sighed. “But this thing…” 

“I never thought he’d be prudish. He might be a stick in the mud about your ties, but to keep you from a woman you’re interested in?” 

“Well, he’s not keeping me from her, exactly…” I trailed off, unsure how to continue talking about this. It was getting confusing, creating a Robbie in my head who was Jeeves, but who Jeeves didn’t like, but who liked me… When it was really Jeeves who liked me… 

“Anyway, it’s good to practice a bit,” Biffy said after a pause. “And one of the lads, well, we all know what it’s like. I’d offer to help you myself, but I’ve got Mabel to think of now.” 

“No, that’s quite all right,” I said quickly, the idea of doing — _that_ — with anyone but Jeeves turning my stomach, however thoughtfully offered. “I, um, it’s just, well, happening a bit late for me, I suppose?” 

“You didn’t have a father or older brother to explain it to you,” he said simply. “Mine took me in hand when I was twelve and told me what to expect before sending me off to school. I hardly think it’s something one of your aunts would mention. And all your cousins are younger than you, aren’t they? Though the rumors about Claude and Eustace and that Dogface fellow? Golly!” 

“I shudder to think of it,” I said, shuddering in truth. I’d heard those rumors, too, and hadn’t given them any credence until I met them all together. Of course, I was dealing with Honoria Glossop and her father at that juncture, so everything had a slightly sinister edge to it. 

Biffy stood and brushed wrinkles out of his trousers. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to bring this to Jeeves,” he said, offering me a hand to steady me as I stood. “He’s probably the best valet in the world, but you still can’t trust a servant with something like this. They’d hardly understand, would they, not going to public school?” 

“Oh, right,” I said, thinking to myself that Jeeves would probably understand _better_ than any chum from school. Not that him understanding meant I could talk to him about it. Not when it was him I was thinking about. “It’s just that I keep thinking about her,” I added, feeling the blush on my cheeks. “It’s been months since she told me she loves me.” 

“Do you love her?” he asked bluntly. 

“I don’t know. How am I supposed to know?” I paused. “It’s not like you and Mabel. I can hear how much you love her by how you talk about her. I can hear it in Bingo’s voice every time he finds a new girl.” 

“I don’t think it’s love in Bingo’s voice, Bertie, old bean. Bingo’s ruled by the brain between his legs.” 

“It has a brain?” I asked stupidly. Biffy burst into loud, hysterical laughter as if I’d said the most funny thing anyone had ever said in his presence. More funny than that story Gussie Fink-Nottle told once about the priest, the chorus girl and the newt. 

“Look,” Biffy said when he’d calmed down, leaning exceptionally close. “Six months from now, if you haven’t tried it yet and Mabel’s still lost, well… it’s good to have friends, isn’t it?” 

“I appreciate it, dear school chum of mine, but I don’t think it’ll come to that,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be hurt the way Jeeves had been. 

“Naw, me neither. You’re perfect for some of the lads with those blue eyes and slender frame. You won’t have any trouble finding someone to help.” 

“Oh, right,” I said again, even less enthusiastically than before. 

.

.

.

I had the porter ring Jeeves in my suite for him to come get me, the cacofa— cacophony was so great at my hotel when I returned. I had barely settled down with my cigarette when there was a knocking at the door. It was the Hemmingways. 

“If you could just return my pearl necklace… for which we have the receipt…” Aline said in a sickeningly sweet voice that sent a shiver of dread down my spine. This beazel was up to something, of that I had no doubt. What it was, well, that was another question entirely. 

I knew instantly when Jeeves handed me the jewel case that it was empty. I also knew he wouldn’t have touched it. 

Between Aunt Agatha losing pearls, and me losing pearls, there was definitely something afoot. 

.

.

.


	7. Hemmingway Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jeeves saves the day, and gives Bertie an opportunity to embarrass his aunt, Bertie speaks his mind about some things that have been on his mind for quite a while.

“Jeeves, I _do_ wish you’d let me in on your little schemes before they come about and make me look the fool,” I declared as I paced around the sitting room of my suite, cigarette dangling from my fingers. Jeeves, in the bedroom packing, answered.

“I believe, sir, that it was Mrs. Gregson who —“ 

“Yes, yes, that was lovely, Jeeves, but I’m not talking about that! I knew there was something up with those so-called Hemmingways from the moment I met them, and when I told you about it, you disagreed! Now I come to find they were thieves and thugs and you knew all about it? It’s not right, Jeeves. Not right at all.” 

“Sir, when I informed you that I had seen Mr. Hemmingway at the races you were disinclined to believe me…” he protested. Jeeves doesn’t usually protest, so I wondered if this was about more than it seemed. With him, it usually was. 

“Just pack the bags, Jeeves. We leave for London on the first train.” 

“I thought you had decided on the Continent, sir,” he said, his voice smooth and controlled as it always was when he got what he wanted. I felt manipulated. I felt small. 

“I changed my mind,” I snapped, anger flaring. How dare he dictate my life? How dare he presume to make decisions for me? Yes, he arranged things so that I was no longer about to be married to Aline, and even had gone the extra mile and made Aunt Agatha look the twice-baked fool, but that didn’t mean I had to reward him! Not when he made me look just as foolish. Well, maybe not quite as foolish, if I stop and think about it, but I was too emotional and hurt that day to think clearly. I felt humiliated. 

“But, sir…” 

“Jeeves, this has gone on long enough. I won’t hear of it any more.” 

“What has, sir?” 

“You bally well know what!” 

“Sir, perhaps you are ascribing a certain level of understanding to me which —“ 

“Use that brain of yours, Jeeves. Use that ‘psychology of the individual’ you love so much.” 

“Sir?” 

“I’m tired of you making me look an arse,” I explained, still pacing, deliberately using the vulgar word to shock him into listening to me. I waved my hand, cigarette ash flying. I stubbed it out and lit another. I knew I should sit down so I could have more of an insight into what he was thinking by seeing his face, but it felt too intimate for the anger boiling inside me. I was stirred, in a very different way than what had been happening of late. “I let it go at Brinkley Court, because I had only just rejected you and I thought you were hurt. I let it go with that cow creamer nonsense because I was just glad to be alive after Spode threatened me. I keep letting it go, Jeeves, but this is the frozen limit!” 

“Sir, if you would just allow me to explain…” 

“And it’s not just making me look bad,” I continued, unable to stop once I’d started. “You’ve gotten me engaged to girls you know I want nothing to do with! Look at that mess with Madeline Basset and Stiffy Byng last month! And you’ve been cold and distant ever since I told you ‘no.’ Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’ve only just started speaking normally to me.” 

“Sir, I think you’re —“ 

“We can’t go on like this, and if you can’t get yourself back to how you were with me before, this arrangement of ours won’t work and one of us will have to leave. I think you know who it will be.” 

“Sir, please don’t do this,” he begged, his voice cracking on the ‘please.’ He gripped my hands tightly. I pulled them free and crossed my arms over my chest, startled that he was close enough to touch me when I thought he was in the other room. He was also on his knees before me, which made me feel dashed uncomfortable. 

“Well, what else am I supposed to do? You tell me, Jeeves, because I have no idea. I’ve tried everything, and you’re still giving me bloody carnations!” 

He gasped at my curse, the second in as many minutes. I’d never used the word in his presence before. I doubt I’d used it more than a handful of times in my whole life, and those other times had been when I was younger and trying to shock my aunts. 

“I thought we were past that, after the talk back at the flat, after the other day, but you’re still finding them for me. I hate carnations, and you dashed well know it!” 

“Sir, I —“ He broke off, clearly at a loss for words. “Are you serious, sir?” 

“About one of us leaving? Yes. Go to France. Take that vacation you’ve been hinting at. But if you go, you go alone, and you’re not coming back to my flat. I don’t deserve to be treated this way by my manservant, so make a decision. Me or the Continent.” 

“Sir…” 

“It’s a simple decision,” I continued. “Your stupid, crippled master or a country full of inverts to play with.” 

“Sir!” he exclaimed, aghast. 

I’d gone too far, said too much. I knew it. But I’d also gone too far to back down. “Which is it, Jeeves?” I snarled. I could feel the tears in my eyes again, angry tears, this time. Anger that he would leave me for people he didn’t know. Angry that he would make me make him make this choice. 

“Sir, you cannot ask me that.” 

“I’m not an invert!” I shouted, far too loudly for a hotel room. Far too loudly for the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere, and we were certainly in the middle of somewhere. “I’m not an invert and I never will be,” I added in a softer voice. “You can’t expect that of me. You can’t turn me into one.” 

“Sir, I would never —“ 

“Then why aren’t you back to normal? It’s been months! Why are you still spending half your brain power making me look the fool?” 

“Sir…” 

“I’m not built for love. How many times do I have to say it? I’m not going to marry, and I’m not an invert. I like you. I respect you. I enjoy your presence and company and conversation. But I can’t love you the way you want. And if you can’t get past that, then you have to leave.” 

We stayed like that for a very long time, me standing over him, him kneeling, both of us breathing hard and neither of us happy. Finally he drew a breath. 

“I will see to the packing and make arrangements for the train to London,” he said in a dead voice as he stood. 

.

.

.

Jeeves remained with me long enough to secure a new valet and train him in my needs, though I doubt he knew I overheard him telling the man I was ‘mentally negligible’. For Jeeves to think that low of me? It made me angry and sad and humiliated. I wanted nothing to do with him after that, and the final two days were spent in absolute silence, at least from my end. He tried to draw me out, asked me questions, my preferences, but I nodded, shook my head or ignored him. I didn’t sit at the piano once, and I wouldn’t let him read me the morning paper. I drew away if he accidentally touched me while helping me dress. Eventually, he left. 

Without Jeeves, I became lonely. I moped about the flat and over at the Drones, and felt what little cheerfulness remained to me slipping away. Within days I’d hired a cottage in the country for the summer, needing to be away from London and my friends and family who couldn’t understand why I’d let him go. Needing to be away from Jeeves, who left me because I couldn’t love him the way he wanted me to. 

He got no less than five offers of employment in the week between leaving Westcombe and walking out the front door for the last time. Aunt Dahlia was the first, both to be told what was happening, and to ask for his portfolio. I told her that she wasn’t allowed to hire him on account of me not being able to abide his presence, and for a change she actually respected my wishes. She could tell how upset I was about the whole thing, and while I doubted she believed I was dismissing him because of an argument over travel, she didn’t ask any further questions. In the back of my head, I wondered if she backed down simply because she knew we’d mend things if given enough time. 

My friend Chuffy snapped him up, but I hadn’t been paying attention at the time and hadn’t let Jeeves tell me, so I only found out later. Chuffy was in London on business, and as far as I’d understood from talking with him, it looked like he’d stay in the metrop. for quite a while, which was good for me. Good to distance myself from them, or, rather, from _him._

I wasn’t pleased with the new man from the moment he crossed my threshold, but Jeeves said he was the only valet available when he called the agency. Out of spite I called them myself, only to find out that he spoke truly. I hadn’t really thought he was lying, but I wondered if he’d perhaps exaggerated the truth a bit, as he was wont to do when situations seemed to warrant it in his mind. He’d done it often enough with my aunts and friends. What would stop him from doing it to me? 

The new man, Brinkley, couldn’t read braille. He wouldn’t read the newspaper to me, nor would he inform me when he moved things in the flat. His cooking tasted worse than I suspected my own would. He refused to fetch things for me, and my friends, when they visited, told me that he wasn’t bothering to match my suits, let alone my socks. He kept going on about how he wasn’t a robot, or a machine or some such rot. I couldn’t understand it. 

Brinkley also drank heavily, stealing my brandy when he ran out of cooking sherry. 

I was far too disheartened to do anything about it. He wasn’t stealing money, as far as my accountants could tell, so I figured to let the man have his brandy. I was far too miserable to do much but sit around listlessly. I sighed a lot. I might even have picked up that book of Nietzsche that Jeeves had ordered brailled for me and taken it with me to the country because I wanted something dark and morose to look at. That Jeeves had ordered it especially for my birthday the previous month didn’t factor into it. Not at all. 

.

.

.


	8. Meeting Mrs. Powderhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie is sitting on a bench one afternoon, reading a book and avoiding Brinkley and his rented cottage when he meets someone unexpected.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you by any chance Mr. Wooster?” a woman’s voice asked at my elbow. “Bertram Wooster?”

I dropped my book, I was so startled. 

“I’m sorry, sir. Here, let me help you,” she continued, pressing my book back into my hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you, sir.” 

“Ah, right. Cheerie-o. What?” I slipped my bookmark into place. It was just getting to the exciting part where the Count of Monte Cristo was about to reveal himself and get revenge on one of his tormentors. A classic, it was a favorite of mine because of all the excitement and murders and political intrigue. 

“I’m Constance Powderhouse, Reggie’s sister. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. My brother writes of you often.” 

“Um, yes, well,” I hemmed, because I had absolutely no idea who she was talking about. Did I know any Powderhouses? I didn’t think so, unless there was a new fellow at the Drones who thought he knew me better than I knew him. 

“Reggie Jeeves,” she said, no-doubtedly sensing my blank-headedness. 

“Oh! Jeeves! Right. Well. Right. Good to meet you, Mrs. Powderhouse,” I said, offering my hand, which she shook. She had a nice handshake, not too limp, like some women. A working woman’s hands, I realized, like Jeeves’s. Well, his would be a working man’s hands, wouldn’t they? It had been so long since they’d touched me… I took a deep breath, smelling herbs and wine and bread and roasted meats. She was a cook, perhaps. Not enough polish or linen-scent about her to be a maid, and not enough key-jangling to be the housekeeper. 

“Is he around? I would have expected him right beside you, from his letters.” 

“Jeeves, yes, well, he’s not, that is to say, he’s no longer working for me,” I stuttered. “Hasn’t been for three weeks,” I added, not sure why. “Not here, no. No Jeeveses here.” 

“Oh, what happened? Don’t tell me he was being stubborn again. That man! I love him to pieces, but he can get himself stuck on an idea and has trouble letting it go, doesn’t he? No wonder he hasn’t written. He usually writes every Saturday, like clockwork, but no letters the past few weeks. I almost thought you’d taken him to the Americas, as he said you planned on doing at some point. Would my letters be sent on to his new position, do you think? He must have gotten them. But why wouldn’t he write back? Not even a telegram! 

"Here,” she added, grabbing my book and elbow. “Come along for tea and you can tell me all about it.” Suddenly, she dropped my arm. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “I’m not supposed to take your arm, am I? See, he tells me these things, but I just forget. Would you like my arm, sir?” she asked, nicely, if embarrassedly. She hadn’t mentioned the book again, but I imagined she’d put it in her basket, or whatever she used to carry her marketing. It was something Jeeves would do, hold my book while we walked, so I could use my stick and hold his arm at the same time. 

“He tells you things like that?” I asked, incredulous, taking her arm on instinct and allowing her to lead me away from the bench where I’d taken to spending my afternoons, well out of sight of my hired cottage and Brinkley. I had no idea Jeeves would tell anyone anything about me, let alone his sister. Nor did I realize he was such a prodigious writer, to send letters every week. It made a person think. 

It made a person miss him. 

But, no, Jeeves had made his choice, and who was I to want him back when he abandoned me so cruelly? Who was I but a sad, crippled man with nothing to look forward to but a life of pointlessness? Too much money to know what to do with and no one with whom to share it. A family that alternated between pity and contempt, when they weren’t trying to marry me off to women I’d barely met. 

“He’s rather dim, if not bad looking,” my cousin Angela had said to a friend, as if I weren’t in the room, part of the conversation. “He’s a blot on the landscape and far too inclined for trouble, but he means well,” said Aunt Dahlia to one of her new friends who’d asked about my personality. “He’s a useless wastrel,” Aunt Agatha hissed at the mother of a prospective fiancee. “And with those eyes of his he’ll never be able to get a job, but he’s got enough money to support a family, if your daughter’s frugal with the funds.” 

“Oh, he tells me all kinds of things about you,” Mrs. Powderhouse explained, tearing me away from my maudlin recollections. “How you like to read at night, how you prefer your tea, how kind and generous you are with your friends…” 

She prattled on as we walked, telling me more about myself than I would have thought possible from a stranger I’d just met, and eventually I found myself ensconced by a rough kitchen table in a grand house of some kind. She smuggled me in the back way, giggling like a schoolgirl at the absurdity of a gentleman going in the servants’ entrance. I hadn’t known there were any grand houses around, as Brinkley hadn’t mentioned it. It reminded me, yet again, how much better off I’d been with Jeeves. He would have told me who lived in the area, and if I knew them, or if they knew my aunts, or had daughters of marriageable age I would want to avoid. 

Even when he was barely speaking to me, he’d have told me, I said to myself. 

“He’s told me how you hate it when people grab you without your leave,” she continued, going back to the original topic and setting a perfect cup of tea in front of me. “How it startles you and makes you upset. He doesn’t like when that happens, you know, and has said more than once that he’s wanted to cuff some blighter on the head for doing it! He thinks the world of you, Reggie does, and wants me to know how to act, if I ever meet you. Which I just did!” She giggled again, though by then I could tell she probably had a few years on Jeeves, who had a few on me. Was she the sister with the daughter? I wondered. 

“Thank you for the tea,” I said, meaning it. I never thought of Jeeves having a family, of having sisters or brothers, even though he’d mentioned a niece once. I haven’t seen my own sister since her wedding day, so I rarely think of her, either. We exchange letters once a month, don’t you know, but they’re the formal letters of strangers rather than the confidences of siblings who grew up together. She’d gotten married as soon as she found an eligible suitor, after all, when she was seventeen and I was ten, and they’d moved to India shortly thereafter. I’d never met her daughters, my nieces, though I made sure my banker sent them gifts for their birthdays and Christmas. 

“So, what did he do?” Mrs. Powderhouse demanded, suddenly serious and recalling me to the situation with Jeeves. 

I shrugged and affected a blank look on my face. It usually worked. Hell, it even worked on Jeeves sometimes! “He wanted to go to France,” I said, knowing it sounded horrible to let someone go for that reason, even if there was a lot more to it than that. There was no way I could discuss the reality with his sister. “I wasn’t in the mood, but he insisted. I was, perhaps, a little hasty when I suggested he choose between me and the Continent, but…” I paused. Why was I opening myself up to his sister like this? What did it matter, though? He didn’t care about me anymore. He left me… 

“He chose France?” she asked, her voice screaming disbelief, though it didn’t get any louder. “He’s never been happier than he’s been working for you!” 

“Oh, really?” I rubbed my chin, distracted by the stubble Brinkley hadn’t been able to remove that morning. I was going to have to do something about him. “You don’t say?” 

“I can just hear it in his letters,” she said. “He always wrote, but there’s a lightness in his tone since he started working for you. He tells the most wonderful stories now, and he just seems happier.” She paused and I sipped my tea, wondering what was next. “There was that time, a few months after he started with you that his letters became a bit short and formal, but he was back to his usual self soon enough, so I didn’t pay it any mind.” 

“Ah, yes, well, we, um, we had a bit of a disagreement about my wardrobe, don’t you know?” I said, though I knew it was really about me rejecting him after those kisses. I’d been dreaming about the kisses lately, thinking of them in the bath, when I could manage my reaction without Brinkley being the wiser. Sometimes, I blush to admit, I imagined it was his hand working me, and things always took much less time when I brought that fantasy to the forefront of my mind. “He’s rather strict about matters sartorial.” 

“Yes, and he always has been. He used to tell our father that his tie was crooked some mornings,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. 

“He’s particular about ties,” I agreed. “Won’t let me leave the house without the proper one tied just so. And the butterfly knots he insists upon for my evening wear. I could swear that one evening he remade it three times, just so it wouldn’t be less than perfect.” I felt a sad smile on my face, and realized I hadn’t smiled in happiness in some time. Three weeks, now. No, a month. Not since he made his decision. I wondered where he was. Had he gone to France, like I accused him of wanting to do? Had he found a lover? An invert? 

Had he replaced me so quickly? 

And me, sitting in his sister’s kitchen, missing him so terribly my heart ached? 

_I’m not an invert,_ I told myself forcefully. _Missing him doesn’t make me an invert. It’s just that he was my only true friend. The only person I could really trust. Only I couldn’t, because he left me._

“France,” Mrs. Powderhouse muttered, getting up from the table and moving around the kitchen, doing something with pots and such. Some bits of food landed on the table. Carrots, celery and onion, I think. “France! I thought he’d given all that up years ago,” she added to herself, so quietly I knew I wasn’t supposed to hear. 

“You know about him, then?” I asked before I could think through the ramifications of my words. I was thinking of his nature so often lately that I grasped her meaning immediately. She must have shared the meaning, for she gasped and dropped her knife. “I thought —“ I broke off, tears suddenly choking me. “I thought I was the only one he’d told.” I couldn’t help myself. I put my head down on my arms and sobbed. There was something about knowing that I was with his sister and that she knew his secret that lowered my guard. He trusted her with his safety. Why couldn’t I trust her with my fear? 

“Mr. Wooster!” Suddenly her arms were around me, holding me while my shoulders shook and I cried. 

“I don’t care,” I told her through my sobs. “I told him I didn’t care. I wouldn’t turn him in. I promised I wouldn’t turn him in. I thought he believed me, but…” 

“Mr. Wooster, please calm yourself,” she said soothingly. 

“He was so cold,” I continued. “He barely spoke to me anymore. Dash it, I’d let him kiss me again if it would bring him back… I miss him so bally much!” 

She gasped again, her arms going stiff around me, though I only remembered that later. I wiped ineffectually at my tears with a handkerchief that didn’t match my suit or my tie. I cried silently for a few minutes, embarrassed but unable to stop. When had I gotten so emotional? 

“Jeeves, our cook, Mrs. Powderhouse. Mrs. Powderhouse, this is Lord Chuffnel’s new valet, Mr. Jeeves, just in with his lordship from London,” a male voice announced, startling us both. “He’s to be shown the kitchens and —“ 

“Reggie? What are you —?” she asked, interrupting whoever was speaking. 

“Connie, I —“ He broke off. “Mr. Wooster? Sir?” 

I shoved myself to my feet and grabbed my stick, even more embarrassed than I’d been, if that were possible. I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t let him see me crying. I couldn’t let him see my humiliation. I didn’t remember how to get out of the kitchen, but I tried. I bumped into a chair, then a counter as I fled. I found a doorway and dashed through, only to find myself on a staircase I didn’t expect. 

I fell. 


	9. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie, in an effort to avoid Jeeves, has fallen down some stairs.

Jeeves saved, if not my life, at least several broken bones, for I’d charged down to the wine cellar without realizing it. To this day I have no idea how he managed to get across the kitchen so quickly. I doubt he knows, either.

He grabbed the back of my suit jacket and tugged, pulling at it since he couldn’t reach my arm. I still fell head over shoes, losing the coat, taking him down with me, sliding down half a dozen steps or more before my stick tangled in the railing and stopped my forward motion. Jeeves thudded to a stop against me, his arms coming protectively around me. 

“Bertie,” he whispered harshly in my ear. “Bertie, don’t scare me like that ever again!” 

He sounded like my Aunt Dahlia had the summer when I was thirteen and got thrown from a horse. 

With our combined weight against it, my stick snapped, sending us rushing forward again, though his arms remained around me the entire time, even as we twisted around the corner of the stairs, as we’d been falling too quickly for the landing to stop us. I bashed my head against the wall. I sprained an ankle. Or broke it, as the case happened to be, though I managed without breaking my arm or neck or spine, thanks to Jeeves. Jeeves would come away with what he later told me were acres of bruises from where he tried to break my fall and ease the impact on me. He was absolutely covered with them, he said, and even through the haze of a concussion and the pain of my broken ankle, I noticed how stiffly he moved for quite some time. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he breathed when we’d stopped, and I could feel hot tears on the back of my neck where they’d slipped down past my collar. Good Lord, was he crying over me? 

“Dear God, please be more careful,” he begged, and not the begging of before when I was giving my ultimatum, but real, honest-to-God begging. He sounded terrified. 

“Reggie! Mr. Wooster! Are you all right?” Connie Powderhouse shouted from the top of the steps. “Call a doctor, Mr. Johnson,” she added to the butler. 

“Sir?” Jeeves asked. 

“My ankle hurts awfully, old thing,” I answered dully, too overwhelmed to bring out any other emotion. “The right one. I broke it once as a child when I was thrown from a horse, and the doctors said it would always be sensitive.” Both my hands were scraped up rather badly, too, but I didn’t realize that through the pain of my ankle. I’d only discover it when the doctor bandaged my hands after he’d set my ankle, the pain of the disinfectant briefly overwhelming the ankle. 

But back to the wine cellar stairway. Ever so gently, without releasing me entirely, Jeeves touched my ankle, then my head where a bit of blood was flowing. I cried out in pain, and he hugged me more firmly against his chest. He kissed the side of my head, the unhurt side, pressing his lips to my temple. They moved against my skin, and I knew the shape of a prayer of thanksgiving when I felt it. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “This is all my fault. I'm so sorry.” 

“Don’t bother over it,” I answered, trying for a carefree tone. “I’ll be right as rain in no time.” 

“Sir, I —“ 

“No, Jeeves. Not here,” I interrupted. I knew he was about to talk about our parting, and I wasn't ready for it. Might never be ready for it. All I knew was that it wasn't the time or place.

“We need to talk, sir.” 

“Not here,” I repeated. “Not now.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

.

.

.

Jeeves refused to let go of me when the doctor arrived, and it took him and three other men to carry me up to the guest room assigned to me. Chuffy had a downright fit that I was in his house and hadn’t made myself known and said hello. Then he noticed my ankle and the blood on my shoulder and shouted for the doctor to hurry up and fix me. His fiancee, Pauline Stoker, a former fiancee of mine, as it happened, was there as well, and cooed over my injury as if I were a dove with a broken wing. Chuffy became jealous, and we had a bit of bother between the two of them, and me, that required some sorting on Jeeves's part. That it also involved J. Washburn Stoker, his yacht, Sir Roderick Glossop, two young pustules called Seabury and Dwight, a significant number of Drones Club members, horrible banjo playing, shoe polish, superstitious policemen, and a time before the magistrate, who happened to be Chuffy, made the whole thing worse. 

The doctor had Jeeves sit behind me on the bed, bracing me against his chest and holding my arms still while the doctor set my ankle and applied the plaster. I thrashed quite a bit, though Jeeves didn't complain. Jeeves didn’t leave my side until the doctor gave me a shot of something to knock me out, and only consented to be brought to the next room so that his own injuries could be tended once he’d assured himself of my relative comfort. 

I woke in the middle of the night to find Jeeves sitting by my bed, both of his hands cradling one of my bandaged ones. He was praying, thanking God that I’d survived. Thanking God that I hadn’t been taken from him. I thought this was rather rummy, as he told me once that he’s not a religious man, but I suppose a scare like me falling down a flight of stairs like I did can bring religion to anyone. I made a noise then, and he raised eyes so rimmed with red that even I could see them in the light of the single candle. 

Jeeves brushed my hair off my forehead. "Sir?" 

"Jeeves? I hurt," I whimpered. 

"Have some medicine, sir. The doctor left it for you." 

I swallowed the pills and closed my eyes, letting my thoughts drift as I waited for the painkillers to take effect. In my mind's eye I saw the stairway, the darkness. I saw the lonely night when I learned of my parents' death.

"I hate the dark, Jeeves," I said. "It reminds me of my parents." 

"I'll stay with you tonight, sir," he reassured me. 

"Thank you." 

“I love you," he whispered, leaning over to kiss my forehead. He must have thought that I was already asleep.

I drifted back to sleep. 

When I awoke to sunlight and birdsong, Jeeves stood by my bed as he always did, with tea, toast, painkillers, and the paper. He went about the usual morning tasks of setting my breakfast tray on my lap and reading the paper, standing beside the bed as he always did, even though I encouraged him to sit. His voice was a far cry from the impassioned one of the night before, now settled into the usual cultured, bored tones I expected when he read me something he'd already read for himself hours ago as he ate his own breakfast. I convinced myself I’d dreamed the whole thing about him praying and kissing my forehead. 

Jeeves wasn’t a religious man, I kept telling myself, so the idea of him praying seemed ludicrous. And why would he say he loved me when he left me like he did only a few weeks before? Why would he kiss my forehead when he knew I wasn’t an invert? 

_Why hadn’t he kissed my lips?_ I wondered as I bathed. Jeeves was with me, washing my back and hair as he’d done in Westcombe. He was required to assist with my front as well because my hands were bandaged. He worked efficiently, finishing even before my body knew where his hands were, and certainly before it knew how to respond. 

_It's as it should be,_ I told myself. It’s not the done thing to grope one’s invalid master while assisting him in the bath, is it? He would be kicked out of his club, if it were to become known, of that I had no doubt. 

He tutted over my chin hairs and asked how they’d gotten to such a state. 

“Brinkley can’t hold a candle to you, Jeeves,” I replied, reveling in the close shave and smooth skin when he was finished. “I’ll need to see the barber, too, I fear.” 

“I will send for one, sir,” he said, settling me in my toweling robe on an overstuffed chair so he could tend to my nails and measure my leg in preparation for altering some of my trousers to fit over the cast on my foot and ankle. I sat back and closed my eyes, letting the morning slide past in companionable silence as the newest dose of pain medication took effect. He hadn’t brought up the incident last night with the kissing and declaration, so I decided it was better if I didn’t as well. I wouldn’t know what to do if he said it to me when I was awake and conscious. 

Did I love him? 

Was it _possible_ for me to love him? 

Was it possible for _me_ to love, full stop? 

Somehow, I doubted it. 

I was too broken, too crippled. I was unable to return physical affection. I was scared. 

Did I want to love him? Did I want it to be possible? 

I was beginning to wonder. 

.

.

.

In the end, breaking my ankle was probably the best thing that could have happened to me, for if I’d gone back to the cottage that night, I’d likely never have left it. Brinkley, drunk, don’t you know, burned it down around himself, and would have been around me, too, if Chuffy hadn’t put me up in his best guest suite on account of me hurting myself on his property. There was even a bell direct to the room they assigned Jeeves belowstairs, if I needed him in the night. After that first night, he slept there, I was sad to see, even as I expected it. 

We stayed a month, Jeeves and I, before he returned to London with me. Seeing me laid up softened his heart and he consented to return to my service. Offered, in fact. Practically begged to let him return. I'd expected him to stay with Chuffy, taking care of me only long enough to send for a new man from London, but he surprised me. I didn’t even have to kiss him, though I thought about it quite a bit. More and more often, it seemed, distracting me at night when I should have been off with that Morpheus chap. Jeeves told me later that his sister took him aside the second night and berated him for leaving ‘such a sweet man’ for not being an invert. And for kissing me in the first place, but _that_ argument is a story for another day. 

Jeeves commissioned a new stick for me, longer than my old one, made of stronger wood and painted white, which, he told me, was the new fashion for blind people after the Great War. Gives others a way to identify us crossing the street, apparently. He also figured out a way to use it to better advantage, swinging it along in front of me side-to-side along the ground to detect obstacles rather than the casual tapping I’d been doing. Jeeves, brainy cove that he is, came up with this method on his own by observing me moving around and by blindfolding himself for a small while to understand what it was like to go without sight. It wasn’t until 1944 that Mr. Hoover — or was it Dr. Hoover? — over in the United States somewhere, figured out the same method, and I still chafe at how his name was put on a technique Jeeves developed twenty years earlier. Jeeves says he doesn’t care, and wouldn’t want his name on it anyway, since he did it for _me,_ not others. 

The intimacy between Jeeves and I increased greatly during our stay at Chuffnel Hall, where we became entwined like the wisteria vine around a trellis. Sort of. Our bodies weren't entwined, but I think our souls became so. It made the eventual coming-together of our bodies that much sweeter. 

Between him having to assist me more often in the bath, and help me hobble about on a broken ankle, an arm around the Wooster waist, my arm over the Jeevesian shoulders, and keep me company when Chuffy was off visiting the Stokers, well, there wasn’t a question of it not happening, really. 

It happened gradually. The tightening of his hand on my waist in response to my gasps of pain. The soft smile about his visage upon hearing my appreciation for his assistance with my _toilette_. The easy willingness to read my spine-chillers to me of an evening in favor of his preferred Spinoza or Nietzsche. Oh, I gave it a go a time or two, to please him, even though my braille copy of Nietzsche burned along with the cottage, but it was rather too much like lessons at school to have him reading it to me, and I grew bored quickly. 

I made efforts to increase our intimacy as well, though I never would have called it such. I had him sit beside me at least once a day so we could talk where I could see his face. Feudal spirit be damned, he was going to sit next to me, dash it all! This led to more small touches of hands to make a point, and sometimes even his face. I leaned my head on his shoulder, too, as I’d done in Westcombe before everything went pear-shaped. He held me whenever I did that, and I enjoyed the feeling of having my side pressed against his. It was a warm feeling in the chest, a gradual lightening of the mood, and there were times when I admit that I sighed in pleasure of the simplicity of it all. 

I marveled at how having him hold me like that kept some of the pain away. 

I felt closer to him than I ever had before, and we both enjoyed it. He didn’t try to kiss me, or do more than hold me, and I was grateful, for my dreams at night were becoming more and more fruity, and I had no idea if I’d be able to resist him if he were to do something like kiss me. 

Or if I’d _want_ to resist him. 

We talked philosophy, and in conversation it felt less like school than listening to him read about it. We discussed literature, finding common ground between the pages of the Bard’s collected works. I asked about his life and interests, his dreams. Travel turned out to be his biggest dream, part of why he chose to be a valet instead of a butler, and I told him I’d let him arrange a trip for us after I was healed. Wouldn’t you know he chose Santorini, the place I’d wanted to take him? 

Once a week or so, when Chuffy was required to dine upon the Stoker’s yacht to appease Pa Stoker and encourage his relations with young Pauline, I ended up at loose ends. Not only did Pa Stoker refuse me entrance to the yacht, but I wasn’t able to negotiate getting on it, with my broken ankle and all. Pauline seemed genuinely disappointed, and routinely kept me company with Chuffy and our other friends who were visiting when on dry land. Many people visited, don’t you know, and they were almost always welcome aboard the yacht while the last of the Woosters was left to languor alone. 

Not that I was ever alone, with Jeeves beside me. 

Those evenings, when the servants had their free night, Jeeves contrived to smuggle me down to dinner with his family, where he usually ate. Thus I became more acquainted with the Jeevesian family. Mr. Powderhouse, Jeeves’s brother-in-law and Chuffy’s steward, was a stogy old foggie, not entertaining at all, but Jeeves’s sister, the cook, more than made up for Mr. Powderhouse’s lack of social wit. I heard stories of their eldest, a daughter named Mabel, who had gone to America to make her fortune on stage only to return to Old Blighty heartbroken by a missing suitor. Still on the stage, she was currently in London practicing for her newest role. 

Hearing that her name was Mabel made me think. It sure was a popular name, wasn’t it? Between Bingo’s waitress, Biffy’s missing girl, and the Powderhouse daughter, Mabels were cropping up everywhere! 

Of the three boys, two were at home, the oldest of them in London studying to be an accountant, while the middle remained as a footman at Chuffnel Hall and the youngest apprenticed to, of all people, the local stonemason. It seemed he had quite the aptitude for carving, don’t you know, and one afternoon Jeeves took me round the shop to feel some of his creations. He was rather good, and I liked the ornamentation he carved, though most of his work was still about hewing blocks and carrying heavy things. Unlike the other Powderhouse children, he took after his father and was built like a bull and had the dim mind to go with it, though the other three seemed to sparkle with Jeevesian intelligence. 

I enjoyed these family suppers, listening to the banter and love between family members of a kind to which I was not accustomed. Everyone, excepting Jeeves himself, seemed rather more ‘of the people’ than I was used to, and their affection for each other was unmistakable. It was so different than my own family, with aunts who criticized my every move and thought, and who routinely threatened me with matrimony or coerced me into petty larceny for their own ends, that it took me several weeks to relax. Jeeves, as well, needed time to become accustomed to having his employer at his family table, though by the final dinner, he’d unbent enough to laugh, just a little, and share stories with his sister about childhood arguments. 

For the first time since my parents died, I felt like I had a home, I confided in Jeeves that evening as he helped me to bed. 

“I can’t thank you enough for allowing me into your life, old thing,” I said, feeling the emotions rather strongly. 

“It has been my pleasure, sir,” Jeeves responded. “Seeing you smile so freely has been —“ He stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. “It has been gratifying, sir,” he finished. 

“Have I not been smiling?” 

“You have been smiling, sir, however they have lacked a certain joviality for quite some time. I am merely commenting that your natural optimism and _joie de vivre_ have returned to them.” 

“Joy of life, Jeeves?” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

I considered this thought for a few minutes. Where had that joy gone, and what brought it back? I could come to only one conclusion: Jeeves made me happy. Being with Jeeves made me happy. Dining with him, and talking with him, and reading with him, and going for walks with him, all of that made me happy. More happy than I really wanted to admit. 

Of course, dreaming about Jeeves made me confused. I couldn’t go to him about it, and I got rather good at hiding the evidence of my late-night activities, or so I thought, though after a few years, Jeeves admitted that he’d known about them the whole time and was silently cleaning up after me as his hope for a future with me as his lover increased with each saucy dream I 'hid' from him. 

“When we’re back in London, Jeeves, will you still dine with me occasionally? When no one is expected?” 

I heard the sharply indrawn breath and felt the tremor in his fingers as he finished buttoning my pajamas. 

“I will consider it, sir,” he answered, and that, as they say, was the end of that for the night. 

.

.

.


	10. The Matter of Biffy and Mabel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie's broken ankle is healed and they've returned to London... now they have to have a serious conversation. Oh, and Biffy's still heartbroken over his lost fiancee.

Our first evening back in London I allowed the conversation we’d been putting off while we stayed with my friend Chuffy. That Jeeves’s sister was right there, with her family, didn’t help matters, either. She’d come to love me, as a brother, of course, and cried when we left.

“You be good to Reggie, now, you hear?” she asked me in a whisper as she hugged me goodbye. “And don’t put up with his guff either. He needs someone to knock him down every so often.” 

“Jeeves,” I said, calling him over to the sofa, happy to be back on familiar ground, so to speak. In my own flat, with what things of mine remained after the fire, and Jeeves in his lair down the hall from me. “Sit with me.” 

He stopped doing whatever he was doing and glided over, taking a careful seat on one of the chairs. 

“No, next to me,” I told him. “And get us both drinks.” 

“Very good, sir,” he responded, doing as I asked without hesitation. He knew this talk had been coming as long as I did, and knowing him, he had spent days worth of hours thinking about it. I might not have put as much effort into it, not being as gifted with the grey matter as he, but I’d done my fair share and I wanted him to know it. 

“I always —“ 

“I never —“

We started talking at once, of course. 

“I always intended to return to your service, sir,” he said, touching my hand to tell me he wanted to talk first. “I intended to teach you a lesson, to show you that you needed me,” he continued, his voice full of shame and guilt. “I would never have put you in a situation as dangerous as the one posed by Brinkley if I had known, sir.” 

“Dash it, Jeeves, I already knew I couldn’t go on without you!” 

“I was being arrogant, sir,” he admitted reluctantly. “I was wrong.” 

“Yes, you were,” I said firmly. 

He paused, perhaps surprised at my stance. I wasn’t usually that resolute. 

“But so was I,” I amended. “I brought up things I shouldn’t have.” 

“Sir, you were correct in assessing my aloofness.” 

“But there was no need for me to mention, you know.” I looked away from him, not wanting to see his reaction. There are times, and this was one of them, when I was glad I couldn’t see. I didn’t want to see the anger on his face. The fear of exposure my comments must have made in him. 

“You were, perhaps, a bit hasty in your comments, sir,” he said. I didn’t hear anger in his voice. It was more like dull resignation to the circumstances. “A hotel suite is hardly the location to have such a discussion,” he added. 

“No, probably not,” I agreed. “I knew it then, but I’d already said it.” 

“I accept your apology, sir,” he responded. 

We sat in silence for a minute, our hands clasped, digesting what had just been said. Had I just apologized without knowing it? I must have, for him to say that. I broke the silence to ask a question I thought I knew the answer to but wanted confirmation about. 

“Why, Jeeves? Why were you so cold? Just answer me that.” 

He hesitated. “I —“ 

“Just say it, Jeeves. Whatever it is. We need honesty if we’re going to make this work, don’t you know. Gentlemen, we are, yes, but so are we men. Polite words and flowery sentiments and generalizing whatsits won’t cut it any longer.” 

“You shame me with your forthrightness,” he murmured. “Would that I could be as direct.” 

Direct… It was time to throw off the blanket of propriety for a few moments and be as direct as possible. We needed to fix what was between us, as I’d said, and it seemed I was more likely to be direct. As a wealthy gentleman, I had the advantage over him that I could be. “Shall I say it, then? You’re attracted to me. You hold a tender pash for me, even now.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You were hurt when I rejected you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You wanted to get back at me somehow. You wanted to hurt me.” 

“Not deliberately, sir. Perhaps at first, the first few days, but I thought I had moved beyond that petty thought.” 

“You didn’t. I felt like I was losing my best friend.” 

“Are we friends, sir?” 

“I’d like us to be,” I whispered. I squeezed his hand. “I want to be more than your master. I can’t be anything else but a friend to you, though.” 

“I know, sir,” he answered. 

“Do you? Really? Me touching you like this, it’s platonic. It can only ever be platonic.” 

“I know, sir. Forgive me for wishing it could be more.” 

“I’m sorry for showing off my body that day in Westcombe,” I said in a rush of embarrassed confession. 

“For what, sir?” He sounded genuinely confused. 

“In the bath. I stretched out, showed everything, even…” I trailed off. There were some things one couldn’t say, no matter the need for honesty. “When you washed my hair.” 

“Sir, that did not even pass into my notice,” he said after a long pause to remember of what I spoke. “It happens to every man at one time or another. It has happened with previous masters. It is of no import.” 

“Even though you…” 

“Even so, sir. As I said months ago, I have spent my life suppressing my desires and nature, no matter how attractive to me my master has been. Not noticing such things is a part of that, along with part of my training.” 

“You valets train against noticing something like that? Really?” 

He smiled. I could see it when he leaned closer to show me. “I jest, sir. But it is something that I have had to become accustomed to, in my chosen profession. Unmarried gentlemen, as a rule, experience it with more frequency than married gentlemen.” 

“Oh.” 

“Is that why you were crying that evening?” he asked, showing a streak of boldness of his own in asking the question. I didn’t think he’d mention that. 

“I didn’t want to be teasing you,” I admitted. 

“You have never been anything but honest with me, sir. It is I who have deceived you, and myself. I thought I could mold you, make you want what I, myself, wanted, but those thoughts were foolish and cruel to you. I am truly, truly sorry, sir.” 

“Jeeves…” 

“Can you ever forgive me, sir?” he asked, his free hand reaching for me, though he dropped it before touching me. 

I scooted closer to him and put my arms around him. After a long moment, he returned the embrace. “I forgive you on one condition, Jeeves.” We sat in silence for a long time, holding each other. “Please don’t leave me again,” I whispered when I could find the courage. 

“Never, sir,” he answered. “I promise.” 

We kissed then, me finding his lips with mine. It felt like hours, exchanging kisses back and forth, the heat bubbling between us in a new way. I don’t know where it came from, my sudden desire to feel his lips on me, but I did. There was something about hearing that he wouldn’t leave me that filled my heart with joy. He kissed my face and neck, my cheeks, behind my ear, and I returned every kiss, finding a spot on his neck that made him shudder when I touched it. I had a similar place behind my ear, it seemed. 

The whole thing felt so much like the dreams that had been plaguing me that I fancy I lost myself to the wonder of kissing him for real. 

It all shattered when he placed my hand on his cockstand and I felt the hardness against my palm. I gasped and pulled away, startled, any arousal I’d been feeling withering away in an instant. He noticed, of course, as I moved halfway across the sofa away from him. 

“Sir,” he gasped. “Sir, I —“ 

“I’m so confused, Jeeves,” I murmured, moving back to my place and resting my forehead against his shoulder. “I — I don’t know why I — But it feels good… I know it shouldn’t, but doing this, it helps me know how much you care about me. That you like me. That you mean it when you say you won’t leave.” 

“I won’t leave, sir,” he said again. “But —“ 

“Only kissing,” I told him. “Only that.” I closed my eyes and kissed his cheek. 

“Yes, sir,” he responded, moving to kiss me in return. 

The clock chiming the hour of ten woke me from the haze of passion that had fallen over me, and I disentangled myself from him reluctantly, kissing him firmly one last time. We sat beside each other, our bodies touching, his arms around me. 

“I’m so confused,” I whispered again. He paused before answering. 

“Who in your life has ever given you physical affection, sir? Who has offered you love?” 

“My parents, I suppose,” I answered. “But I lost them so long ago…” I jerked my head up suddenly. “But I don’t think of you as my parent!” I exclaimed. 

“No, sir, I understand that. My point is merely that you have had a dearth of affection in your life, and it is natural in such a case to desire it. I am —“ He broke off, needing to choose his words, I fear. “I am convenient, sir. I have a deep affection for you, I have expressed said affection, and have shown my willingness to offer it in a physical form. You, who have not had such an expression of positive regard, crave it.” 

“The psychology of the individual, Jeeves?” 

“Precisely, sir.” 

“I don’t mean to hurt you,” I said, echoing what I had said when he first expressed his feelings for me. 

“Sir, this time of separation has shown me that ours is a much more complicated relationship than I ever conceived. We each care for the other deeply, each in his own way, and those ways are, perhaps, more aligned, and also less so, than I had once hoped.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“For you, sir, physical touch gives you more information about how your conversational partner is feeling and what he is thinking in a way that I rely on eye-contact and facial expression. You do not have the option of seeing my face, of seeing my smile or frown, the way I can see yours, unless we take extra care. Touching my face or hand, holding each other, kissing, it all gives you the reassurance that I am here with you, caring about you, wanting you to be happy and comfortable. You said as much not five minutes previous.” 

“And yet, to you, kissing is romantic. It’s a sign of love,” I protested. 

“That may be, sir, however I am willing to revise that definition.” 

“What do you mean?” I said again, feeling almost like the parrot with one phrase to its voice. 

“I mean, sir, that if an embrace or a kiss will reassure you that we have mended our relationship to your satisfaction, it is a small thing to give you for such peace of mind.” He cupped my cheek in one large hand and kissed me again. “From now on, sir, I will consider these embraces and kisses we have exchanged as mere forms of communication between us, if that pleases you.” 

“You will? You can?” 

“Yes to both, sir.” 

“Earlier, when you moved my hand…” 

“I forgot, sir, where I was for a moment. It won’t happen again.” 

“You won’t, um, forget, and think that this kissing means that I love you as you love me?” 

“Sir, you have said on more than one occasion that you do not think you are capable of romantic or sexual love. Your reaction today confirms that stance. If that is truly the case, then there is no sense in hoping for that to change. I will adapt, sir. I will not treat you coldly because these kisses do not lead to love or sexual acts. You so clearly did not enjoy when I placed your hand in that intimate location, and as I said, I will not repeat such an action.” 

I sighed. “You would change all that for me?” 

“I would, sir.” 

“I’m still sorry it couldn’t be more,” I whispered. 

“I know, sir, but we will adapt to this change. I promised that I won’t leave you again, Mr. Wooster, and I intend to keep my promise.” 

.

.

.

After resolving things between us, we quickly fell back into our routine. The next morning, Jeeves began reordering the flat and cleaning to his heart’s content, returning it to its pre-Brinkley splendor, while I visited with friends at the Drones, now that I was able to walk about unaided. Jeeves took to giving me a good morning kiss with my tea, and I offered a good night kiss at the end of the day in exchange. It seemed to suit us, and there was none of the coldness from him that had characterized our interactions after the first ‘kissing incident,’ as I called it. And if the evening kisses lasted longer than the quick morning greeting, well, neither of us said anything about it. 

It was taken as read that we would never be able to do such things were someone else in the flat or when we were visiting somewhere, though I did take it upon myself to inform Jeeves that I was aware of the consequences of our activities becoming known and was therefore more than willing to be complicit in keeping them secret. We might know between the two of us that the kisses weren’t more than communication and reassurance, but anyone else seeing them would think we were inverts of the highest order. 

A week or so after reconciling completely, Jeeves was reading me the Society pages as I mangled the eggs and b., when the most curious thing happened. 

“I say, Jeeves? Did I hear that correctly? You said that Biffy’s engaged to Honoria Glossop?” 

“Indeed, sir,” he answered, his voice cool. 

“But he was supposed to marry that girl Mabel!” 

“Perhaps Mr. Biffin is of a more flighty nature than once believed, sir,” he said in a rather soupy tone. “I shall prepare your bath, sir,” he added, flitting off to accomplish said activity. 

I ran into Biffy at the Drones several hours later. We greeted each other, him without his usual vigor, and he returned to staring into space, the activity my arrival had interrupted. I crunched on a few nuts, just to entertain myself. The boys were doing something loud behind me, so I wasn’t able to hear the differences between the sounds each kind of nut made. It was driving me to distraction. 

“Bertie?” 

“Still here, old fruit,” I answered. 

“Is it true that you were once engaged to Honoria?” 

“It is.” 

“How on Earth did you manage to get out of it?” He drew back and reordered his thoughts. “I mean, what was the nature of the tragedy that prevented your marriage?” 

I leaned closed to him. “Biffy, old egg, as man to man, do you want to oil out of this thing?” 

“Bertie, old cork, as one friend to another, I do.” 

“How the dickens did you get into it?” I asked, wondering if it was anything like what happened to me, with a misplaced word or two and an assumption on her part of feelings in the Wooster heart that, well, frankly weren’t there. 

“It just sort of happened,” he answered. “You know how it is when you’re heart’s broken. You get absent-minded and cease to exercise proper precautions.” I nodded thoughtfully. Yes, Biffy and I had fallen into the same situation in re: Honoria Glossop, though mine didn’t involve broken hearts. Only one thing to do about it: Ask Jeeves. 

The only problem with the situation, aside from Biffy’s engagement to Honoria, was that Jeeves flatly refused to help. He declared that it was improper to intercede in a matter that did not involve me, and that it would be taking far too much of a liberty, something he was strongly opposed to doing. I reminded him that he frequently took liberties with me, at which point his entire posture stiffened and he left the room with the most abrupt ‘excuse me, sir’ I’d ever heard from the man. 

I came to the conclusion, all on my own, that he might be worried that the kissing wheeze could be construed as ‘taking liberties,’ but I reminded him that evening as I kissed him goodnight that it was merely our way of communicating and not a liberty at all, since we’d agreed to it, and to what it meant. I kissed him quite passionately to prove my point. He softened towards me again, and the next morning allowed me to wear a rather fruity blue and purple paisley tie to the Drones which got more compliments than Offy Prosser’s newest girlie magazine. The magazine in question had far fewer unclothed women than the one I’d seen months before, and the boys thought it was in rather bad taste for him to advertise it as such when all the women were wearing lingerie. Turns out it was a catalogue for a store called Eulalie, or some such place. 

All of that aside, I wanted to help my friend. I invited myself to lunch at his flat when the Glossops were expected, and the lunch went as well as could be expected. I deliberately encouraged Biffy to squirt old Glossop with Boko’s buttonhole wheeze, which, rather than making Honoria disinclined to marry Biffy on account of the friends he kept and his overall clumsiness, made her _more_ desirous of the union. She cornered me afterwards to explain that I was sweet to want to get back in her good graces by making Biffy look bad so I could marry her myself, but that a romance between us would never work. I didn’t shoot or hunt, after all, and she couldn’t abide by Jeeves. Well, that was the limit for my cordiality, don’t you know, and I stormed off home with barely a tootle-pip to Biffy. 

I spent an hour pacing around my sitting room complaining about Honoria and her opinion of Jeeves to the man himself, not to mention her father, then threw myself into a chair and bemoaned Biffy’s fate and how he’d only ended up engaged to Honoria because his heart was broken. Jeeves had a thoughtful air about him as he set out my evening attire. He listened to my explanation quite attentively, don’t you know. 

My ankle, though healed, was more weak than it had been before the accident at Chuffy’s, and all the pacing about earlier had made it start to throb by the time I got out of the bath. I needed to hold onto Jeeves to be sure I didn’t slip. I stopped him from walking away immediately upon settling me to rest before dressing me. “You’ll come with us?” I asked. 

“I do apologize, sir, but I only acquired tickets for the gentlemen and ladies of your party for tonight’s performance,” he answered. “It would be inappropriate for me to be seated with you in such a venue.” 

“Oh,” I said with a sigh of disappointment. “But you could stand by, make sure I have enough champagne, couldn’t you?” 

“Sir, that is the job of the theatre waitstaff.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s rather rummy, don’t you think? I wanted to be able to talk about it with you afterwards.” 

“I’ve already seen the production, sir,” he said as he held open my trousers for me. 

“You have? It that why you know that we’ll all like it?” 

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I thought it was a very diverting performance, and one of the female actresses has a lovely voice that would perhaps soothe Mr. Biffen in his emotional distress.” 

“Oh? And how do you know that?” 

Jeeves remained quiet as he did my shirt studs and cufflinks. He selected a tie and began turning it into a perfect butterfly knot. “Mr. Biffen’s former finance, Mabel, happens to be preforming in this particular musical, sir,” he finally said. He remained close to me so that I could see his eyes. “Her full name is Mabel Powderhouse.” 

“Your niece!” I exclaimed. 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“Good Lord! I mean to say, Good Lord!” I accepted the cigarette case and lighter he offered, depositing them in the appropriate pockets. “Do you mean to tell me that your niece Mabel is Biffy’s missing fiancee Mabel?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“But how long have you known?” 

“I spoke to my niece when I returned to London during the unpleasantness at Westcombe, sir,” he answered. “She informed me of his identity at that juncture.” 

“You’ve known this whole time and not said anything?” 

“I was under the impression, as was my niece, that Mr. Biffin was jilting her by not meeting her at the hotel that afternoon. In hearing your explanation today, however, I was forced to revise my opinion. As the young lady has not stopped loving her absent suitor, I though that having Mr. Biffin attend her performance would be an excellent opportunity to reunite them.” 

“I say, Jeeves, that’s brilliant!” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Now you _must_ come to the performance. You’ve got to be there to see —“ 

“I will wait here at the flat for your return, sir. I do not wish to intrude on such a private personal affair.” 

“Come, come. Who else is going to describe the activity on stage to me?” 

“I believe Mr. Biffin would eagerly undertake that role, sir.” 

“True enough, Jeeves. It would be like we were back at school again.” 

“A pleasant memory for you, sir?” 

I shrugged. “It was fine. I’ve known Biffy since I was in short trousers, you understand. He’s a good friend.” 

“I am glad to hear it, sir.” He finished brushing off the lint and dressed me in my coat, hat and gloves. “And now, sir, I will escort you to the taxicab,” he informed me, giving me my stick and offering his arm. I took it, but paused at the entryway to lean up and give him a quick kiss. 

“Thank you, Jeeves. This means a lot to me.” 

“You’re welcome,” he answered, kissing me in return. “I am endeavoring to inform you of my ‘schemes,’ as you call them, before they come to their conclusion, so that you will be prepared.” 

“Oh, Jeeves!” 

We stood kissing for several minutes until the buzzer from the foyer rang to inform us that the taxi with Sir Roderick and co. was waiting downstairs. “Enjoy the performance, sir,” he said. “I will be here when you return.” 

.

.

.


	11. Cannes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Aunt Dahlia orders Bertie to Cannes, she demands that he leave Jeeves behind. What will happen, and will Bertie survive?

Wouldn’t you know that just when life is swimming along all boomps-a-daisy, something comes up and gives it to you in the neck? In my life, it’s either a friend or an Aunt. Aunt Dahlia, in this case. Once again, Jeeves was packing for a trip, this time for Santorini, when Aunt Dahlia came calling. It was barely a month after Biffy and Mabel became engaged again, and there had been so much to do around town to help them that I hadn’t been able to have Jeeves arrange the trip until just that moment. Aunt Dahlia dropped the news while Jeeves was in the kitchen preparing tea. 

“Bertie, we’re going to Cannes tomorrow.” 

“What?” I blurted. 

“You heard me, you useless thing. We’re going to Cannes tomorrow. Have Jeeves pack your things.” 

Jeeves shimmered over at that moment to offer her tea and backed to a respectful distance in the corner after handing me mine. 

“Did you hear me, Jeeves? Angela and I are taking Bertie to Cannes tomorrow.” 

“I shall begin preparing our things, sir,” he said to me. 

“No, Jeeves, just Bertie’s things. I need you to stay here and mind the place.” 

“Now, see here, Aunt Dahlia…” 

“The matter is final.” Aunt Dahlia sipped her tea. “You won’t mind hosting young Thos. while we’re gone, will you, Jeeves? He _so_ wants to see London.” 

“But he’s not old enough for London!” I protested. “And you can’t just drop these things on a person. _I_ hired Jeeves, so _I_ get to tell him what to do.” 

“Then tell him to watch Thos.!” she ordered me. “You’re coming, Atilla, and Jeeves remains here. We’ve hired someone for you for the trip, so there won’t be anything to worry about.” 

“Oh, but couldn’t it wait a few weeks? We were just about to go to Greece, you see, and Jeeves tells me that this is the perfect time of year for it —“ 

“Greece?” she asked, her voice filled with a certain something that indicated disdain for my choice. “Why on earth would you want to go there?” 

_Because Jeeves wants to,_ I thought to myself. “I studied the Greeks in school, don’t you know,” I said instead. “I thought I’d like to see some of the places they talked about. It’s dashed interesting.” 

Beside me, Jeeves coughed delicately. “If I may interject, Mrs. Travers, I do not believe that Mr. Wooster would do well traveling with an unfamiliar man, when I am available.” 

“You’re not coming!” Aunt Dahlia roared, sounding rather like Aunt Agatha, only louder and fiercer. “You’re not coming, Jeeves, and that’s my final word. I’ll have Tom step in with the agency if you don’t —“ 

“Now, aged relation, you know how much I need Jeeves,” I tried again. “The last valet I had burned down my cottage! And the one before that stole from me. You can’t ask me to trust some stranger —“ 

“No Jeeves, or no Cannes,” she declared, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you’re going to Cannes.” 

“I don’t want to go to bally Cannes anyway,” I muttered, crossing my own arms and sulking. “I _want_ to go to Greece, like I was planning.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Bertie, dear. It’ll be fun. Think of all the nice summer romances…” 

“I don’t want a summer romance!” 

“Well, you don’t always get what you want,” she declared, sweeping out of the flat as if she owned it instead of me. 

I turned to Jeeves. 

“What do we do?” I moaned. “I don’t want to go with her, not if you’re not coming!” 

“It seems, sir, that there is no swaying your aunt.” 

“You mean, I’m to do what she says?” 

“Yes, sir. Much as it pains me, I believe that is the best course at this moment in time. You do not like disappointing your aunt, sir.” 

“I’m not letting her drop Thos. on you,” I told him. “There’s the limit, and there’s the frozen limit,” I said. “And this Wooster knows the difference.” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

I felt wilted. I must have sagged, because soon Jeeves’s arms were around me and his lips brushing my forehead, though it was the middle of the afternoon. He’d never held me like that in the middle of the afternoon before, and I found that I rather liked it. 

“I will miss you, sir,” he murmured. 

“I’ll miss you, too,” I answered. 

We stayed like that, embracing, for a very long time. Later, when Jeeves went to redo the packing, I sat at the piano and picked out a slow dirge I remembered from some long-ago piano lesson. Dinner was a quiet affair, with none of my usual chatter, and I had no desire to go out or see friends. I settled on the settee with a book, but couldn’t concentrate. Not even the excellent Jeevesian cocktail he produced improved my mood. I sighed. 

Jeeves came to me and sat beside me without being asked, putting his arms around me and holding me close. The physical contact felt comforting, if distressing at the same time. It was a reminder of what I would not have while at Cannes, don’t you know, and knowing my aunt, it might be as long as a month or two before I saw him again. 

“Jeeves,” I whispered, and he interpreted my tone and kissed me. 

He tasted of the coffee he drank after finishing the supper dishes. His lips were as soft as always, as gentle, but there was a subtle difference. He was more insistent than usual, and his hands wandered more freely through my hair. I let him, and stroked his cheeks with my thumbs, and kissed him back. I felt tears on my own cheeks, and he kissed them away, murmuring words of comfort and affection. 

“No one will touch me until I’m back here with you,” I realized, startling us both with my sudden insight. 

“Would you want someone else —“ 

“No!” 

Jeeves grunted, pleased, and took me to bed. He undressed me carefully, his hands brushing against my skin in that subtle way he’d developed in the weeks since our reconciliation. “Good night, sir,” he said, kissing me one last time before leaving me in the dark. 

It took me a long time to fall asleep, wondering, not for the first time, what it was like for him, as an invert, to kiss his master the way we were doing. Was it really ok? Had he gotten over his love of me? Did he really accept that what we did showed nothing but affection and communication instead of love? 

I didn’t ask him in the morning, and after the good morning kiss with my tea, he was the image of professionalism, as the man Aunt Dahlia hired arrived as I was eating breakfast to learn from Jeeves of my ways and needs. McIntosh, or Maguire, or something. He didn’t make enough of an impression on me to remember his name longer than he worked for me. 

. 

. 

. 

It was weeks before the topic of inverts, and Jeeves’s own status as one, occurred to me again. I was on the trip to Cannes with Aunt Dahlia and my cousin Angela, and by the end of the first two weeks, I missed him terribly. I even sent him a postcard the third week, paying the store girl a little extra to pen the missive for me. 

Jeeves had included a brailler with my things, so that I could write if I wanted, for I’d been developing an interest in writing fiction over the last few months, and I considered sending him a real letter. I wanted to tell him about the beach, and the food, and the shows I’d seen, and the time spent with Angela, and the men who wanted to take her out. I wanted to give him the gossip of Aunt Dahlia and her friends. 

I wanted to complain about the forward young women who frequently threw themselves at me for no reason other than that I was attractive and rich, bad eyes be damned. 

As I was sitting down to begin, the temporary man strode through the apartment, and I realized how it would seem to write a letter to my manservant. Sending a telegram about household matters would be fine, but a letter? Even a braille letter that the postmasters wouldn’t be able to read. It would make me look like an invert to write to him of my true feelings, since some of the kinds of things I wanted to say weren’t exactly chaste. I wanted to tell him that I missed him, that I missed talking with him, that I missed sitting with him, embracing him, kissing him… 

I’d never missed someone like I missed Jeeves. It was worse than when he’d left me, which is, in retrospect, perhaps why Aunt Dahlia didn’t want him to come to Cannes, punishing him by not allowing him to the Continent he’d so desired to see before. I’d never thought of her as the vindictive type, but anger and revenge are frequent bedfellows, or so Jeeves tells me. 

I missed the way he would shimmer about the flat, setting things to rights that I didn’t know were wrong. I missed the quiet cough he would give before coming up with a suggestion or scheme about the matter under discussion. I missed the smell of his aftershave that lingered in the morning sunlight as I ate my eggs and b. in bed. I missed having him read to me until I slept and I missed the perfect tea he delivered just after I woke. I missed the little touches I’d grown used to, for no other servant touched me in that manner, and if they touched me at all it would be to grab my arm to drag me somewhere. 

I missed being able to talk to him about anything and everything. I missed how he understood me after a few vague words, and that he never hurried me to find the word I couldn’t seem to locate in my often empty head. I missed how he didn’t make me feel stupid. I missed his insult-free manner of speaking to me, for Aunt Dahlia, much as I love her, cannot seem to hold a conversation without saying at least two or three bad things about me. Not that what’s-his-name insulted me, he was very proper, don’t you know, but he was also taciturn, not speaking unless spoken to. 

I missed the good morning kiss, presented matter-of-factly with my tea. 

I missed the good night kisses, and the way he would stroke my hair, and the gentleness of it, and the play of his lips against mine. 

But Aunt Dahlia had been adamant that Jeeves not come, so I’d left him in London. _The next time, I won’t let her talk me into it,_ I promised myself. _Nor will I let Jeeves persuade me._

Though I had my new white stick, and could travel about a little more securely, I still preferred to have an arm to hold on to. Jeeves’s most of all, of course. He knew how to let me lead, to amble, to walk aimlessly, the way Biffy did, though Jeeves doing it was more for my comfort than for needing directions. 

One night, towards the end of the third week, I wandered away from the restaurant _du jour_ and found myself a local watering hole. I spoke enough French to order a drink, and settled at the bar to enjoy it and take in the atmosphere of the place without worrying about my aunt or cousin feeling like they had to be responsible for me. I hated that. They seemed to think that just because I couldn’t see, that I was stupid, or needed caretaking. Just because I’d grown used to Jeeves and his quiet ways didn’t mean I was dependent on him, either. I could handle myself, and calling a cab to get me back to the hotel was easy enough. 

I was on my second drink when I realized there were rather more coves, and rather fewer fillies, than I expected at this particular establishment. Or any establishment other than a gentleman’s club. When I happened across a pair of gentlemen feeling each other up outside the water closet, mouths fused together making the small smacking sounds of passionate kisses, I figured out what was going on. I’d come to a club for inverts. A club for inverts, masquerading as a regular restaurant and bar. I knew those clubs existed in London, my friends had told me as much, but France is more lenient, so a special password isn’t required to get in. Nor was it illegal. 

Egads, they were so easy to find that even _I’d_ found one. 

I thought of Jeeves immediately, wondering if he’d gone to a place like this in his wild youth, and whether he’d still go, on his evenings off, just to be around men with similar inclinations. Would he feel comfortable in this sort of place? Somehow, I doubted it. He’d spent his life suppressing his desires, after all, I reasoned, so he wouldn’t want anyone to associate him with that sort of place or those sorts of people. 

Someone slid an arm around my shoulders and leaned in to lick my ear. I stiffened. 

“Haven’t seen you around here, sugar. Want to make a night of it?” asked a pleasantly-accented voice. Fortunately, the man spoke English, no doubt recognizing my suit as London style rather than Paris or Milan. 

“No, thank you,” I murmured, shaking him off, remembering too well what happened when men started licking my ear and calling me funny names. He didn’t seem offended at my refusal and we chatted about literature for a while before he ankled away. Jeeves never licked my ear, I realized with a start. He’d done it once or twice in the first week of our agreement about kissing, but I’d reacted so poorly that he’d stopped without having to be told. I was glad that he hadn’t asked the reason, for that would necessitate me telling him about that underbutler, a subject I was loathe to discuss with anyone, even him. 

By the time I’d been propositioned thrice more, I decided it was well beyond time to leave. I paid my tab and was waiting for a cab on the sidewalk outside when a man I hadn’t noticed in the club walked up to me on the street. Not that I’d noticed many people, though I’d chatted with quite a few, and I doubt if I’d be able to identify any of them, but that wasn’t the point. He linked his arm with mine and dragged me towards the alley beside the building with a forcefulness that startled me into going with him. Fear gripped my heart, and all the tension that had been building as men touched me and offered me fruity evenings snapped, sending a shiver down my spine I couldn’t control. I started breathing quickly and shallowly. 

“Saw ya come out alone,” the man growled, his free hand groping my unmentionables as he shoved me against the alley wall. “Knew you’d want it rough just by the look of ya.” He squeezed, hard, and I gasped in pain. “Ya just need someone to take care of you, don’t ya? Man who can’t see, he needs someone to look after him,” he continued, and the fire of anger suddenly replaced the pain. How dare he assume such things about me? I wasn’t even an invert! And to think that being blind made me an easier target? 

I gripped my stick tighter and knocked him over the head with it, hitting him once more for good measure when he collapsed to the ground. Then I kicked him. I silently thanked Jeeves for the sturdier stick, though I was still on the fence about it being white. I was exhilarated by my victory. Blood was pounding in my ears, and I wanted to shout. 

I wanted to run home end hurl myself into Jeeves’s arms. 

I wanted to kiss the breath out of him and find out what all these men liked so much about being inverts. 

I kicked the man once more as I got my bearings to leave the alley. There was no way I was allowing that cur to follow me. There was no way I was allowing him to do such disgusting things to me. 

And to assume I was helpless just because I couldn’t see? Pah! I say. Pah! 

I dashed from the alley and stumbled to a stop just as a cab pulled up. I was back at the hotel in minutes, only to find a frantic Aunt Dahlia in the lobby, pacing as she waited for word of me. 

“Bertie, you blister, where have you been?” she demanded as soon as I presented myself. I sagged, all the energy from before leaving me in a flash. I told her I’d gotten lost and allowed her to escort me to my room, which was, conveniently enough, right next to hers. I didn’t have the energy to fight with her about my independence, nor did I have the heart to do more than loosen my tie before I collapsed into bed. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell her about my misadventures. 

I woke screaming, my limbs tangled in the bedding. I was in my usual pajamas, so my silent man must have seen to undressing me while I slept. Jeeves would have done the same thing, though he’d have tutted over the wrinkles and kissed me goodnight as he did it. On the third morning of night terrors, a gentle hand on my shoulder and a deep voice in my ear brought me out of my fright much more calmly than Aunt Dahlia’s rough hunter’s voice and powerful grip. 

“Sir, sir, please wake up!” 

I jerked to wakefulness, grabbed onto Jeeves as a lifeline, and started sobbing my eyes out. He held me close, murmuring nonsense words and endearments I was too far gone to pay attention to. Just having him there, having his voice in my ear and his arms around my body felt so good. I inhaled his scent, relishing his aftershave, his brilliantine, the subtle scent of sea salt. 

“Jeeves?” 

“Are you more yourself, sir?” he asked, wiping tears from the damask cheek with his thumb before bending to kiss me. We kissed for a few minutes until my anxiety of being discovered grew too much to bear and I called a halt, even after he reassured me that the door was firmly locked and the curtains still closed. 

“What are you doing here, Jeeves?” 

“I received an urgent telegram from Mrs. Travers yesterday, sir, indicating that my presence was required. I came as swiftly as I was able.” 

“Lord love a duck, you’re just what I needed,” I declared, clutching him more tightly. And deciding that another kiss or two couldn’t hurt. 

He held and kissed me until the tears passed and I relaxed against him. 

“Sir, if you don’t feel it is impertinent of me to ask, what are your nightmares about?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I growled, throwing myself away from him and crossing my arms over my chest. I might have even scowled. 

“Very good, sir,” he answered, his voice becoming soupy. 

“Why does it matter, Jeeves?” 

“It has often been said that dreams are the unconscious desires of the waking mind, sir, and the content —“ 

“There’s no way in Hades I want that!” I barked. 

“Sir, if you —“ 

“Run my bath, Jeeves,” I ordered. 

“Very good, sir,” he answered, leaving me alone. 

. 

. 

. 

By the end of the week, I could barely sleep, I was so plagued by nightmares. Even with Jeeves’s presence to soothe me, and his voice to read to me as I drifted off, waking alone in the middle of the night in terror continued unrelentlessly. And with Jeeves ensconced with the other servants rather than down the hall as in our flat, it was left to my aunt to wake me and call for him to calm me. Within days, Aunt Dahlia had Jeeves pack my things and take me home, bleary-eyed and practically swooning. My nightmares continued, and, in point of fact, got worse once we were home, with Jeeves nearby and reminding me of what I’d rather avoid thinking about. 

Grabbing folks like that… were all inverts that way? Did they all ‘want it rough,’ as the tough in France had said? Would _Jeeves_ ever grab me like that? 

No. I couldn’t believe it of him. He might be an invert, but he had never once touched me like that. Yes, he’d put my hand on himself by accident, but he’d never touched me, and there had never been a repeat of that incident. He’d never once made me feel dirty, just by leering at me. Jeeves didn’t leer. Oh, he admired. Even a blind man can tell when someone appreciates his body, and Jeeves saw to my bathing and dressing several times a day. I didn’t mind that he looked, now that we’d sorted things out between us. He loved me, after all, or so I assumed. Why else would he stay with me when all I’d done was reject his tender offerings? 

One evening, after reading aloud until I slept, Jeeves decided to stay with the young master, sitting in a chair by the bedside, to be close at hand should another nightmare plague me. It did, of course, and like that first morning in Cannes, he took me in his arms when I woke screaming. I clung to him, and cried, and pulled him into the bed with me, and fell asleep with our arms around each other and his scent in my nostrils for only the second time. 

I slept better than I had in a month, and it gave me something to think about come morning. 

. 

. 

.


	12. The Baring of the Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie needs to talk a few things out, and who does he turn to if not Jeeves?

“Jeeves? Can we return to that, um, question?” 

“Which question is that, sir?” 

“You know, the one about you, you know, figuring out, and all that rot.” 

“You mean, how I discovered my inclinations towards men, sir?” Jeeves asked, already at the bar pouring us drinks. I scooted over on the chesterfield to make room for him. It was early afternoon, and I was starting to feel better after the nightmares. Soon I’d be able to go out to lunch with my friends at the Drones, but for now I had a few things to discuss with my man. I only hoped he could help me understand. 

“That one,” I answered. 

He handed me a glass and sat down before he spoke again. He’d gotten used to sitting beside me on occasion, and I was glad that I no longer had to ask him to do it. Being able to see him slightly more clearly made all the difference in heavier conversations. We’d had quite a few over the months, and it was probably well past time that we had another. 

“I believe I always knew, sir. From a young age, I was attracted to older boys as playmates, and as puberty overtook me, so did my desire for them on a physical level.” 

“You got that stirring?” 

He coughed into his fist, clearly embarrassed to admit to such a thing. “Yes, sir.” 

“Anything else?” 

“There were dreams, sir, of a pleasant nature.” 

“Imagining what might happen, that sort of thing?” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“Did you ever wake — I mean, that is to say, whatsit?” 

“Nocturnal emissions and arousal upon waking are a part of every young gentleman’s experience, sir, especially when he is younger.” 

“Oh.” I paused, thinking of that night when I’d pictured myself with Jeeves. I’d had several ‘incidents’ since, which Jeeves was kind enough to not mention. “Really?” 

“It is a proven biological fact, sir.” 

“But it goes away, doesn’t it, Jeeves?” 

“The frequency diminishes, sir, however it is possible at any age, though older gentlemen rarely complain of it.” 

“I see.” 

We sat in silence for a while. I fidgeted with my glass. 

“And did you — with other — um, you know?” I didn’t want to finish the question. I wasn’t sure what I was asking. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I wasn’t sure he would answer, though he hadn’t balked at any question yet. And he had an amazing ability to interpret my inarticulate words to get to the heart of the meaning of it all. 

“I participated in carnal acts with other young men for several years before I gave it up,” he said softly. I started slightly, not expecting him to be so blunt. He usually wasn’t. His cheeks had grown pink, and I touched them with my free hand. He took it in his own and brought it to his lips to kiss it, before returning my hand to my knee. 

“Gave it up? You mean, you’re not an invert anymore? Is that possible?” 

“No, sir, I doubt it is possible to change something so fundamentally a part of one’s self as that. I refer, instead, to the carnal acts. I have not indulged since I was nineteen, sir.” 

“How old are you now?” 

“Thirty-seven, sir.” 

“You’re 13 years older than me?” I asked, startled. “Surely that can’t be true!” 

“It is, sir.” 

“Hmm, 37 minus 19… Eighteen years without? Has it been difficult to, um, not, well, and such?” 

“At some times more so than at others,” he answered, and I wondered if there would be a question he wouldn’t answer, since he’d been so free with the personal talk so far. “Physical companionship can be very grounding, in a psychological sense, as well as a physical one.” 

“I’ve never, that is to say —“ 

“I know, sir. There’s nothing to be ashamed about waiting for such a thing. Many people wait until matrimony to learn the realities of the sexual acts. I, being how I am, did not have that option.” 

“I’ve never wanted anything like that,” I said softly. “I don’t like being touched.” I paused. “Except by you, Jeeves. I can tolerate you touching me. I even like it sometimes,” I admitted softly. 

“Every man has his likes and dislikes, sir. Not all men have a sexual desire or drive.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, sir. It is not uncommon, especially among the upper classes, who, more often than not, marry for convenience or family position or money rather than romantic love.” 

“Hmm,” I mumbled, sucking on my teeth. “That biological fact thinggummy you talked about earlier. People like me, who don’t, you know…want anything… do they —?” 

“They experience nocturnal emissions and arousal upon waking, just like any other man, sir. As I said, it is a biological fact, irregardless of an individual’s desires.” 

“Well, that makes sense, I suppose, but one thing still seems un-uncovered, if that’s a word. Why did you stop, if you liked it, as I imagine you must have, to have done it at all in the first place?” 

“When I was nineteen, sir, there was an incident, fortunately not involving myself, that changed my views on the subject of carnal relations between men. I vowed at that time that I would not seek them again until I found a man with whom to share the rest of my life. Of necessity, a man I could trust.” 

“Did it involve Wilde?” 

“Mr. Wilde died in 1900, sir. I was thirteen at that time. I was too young to understand his trial several years prior, and by the time I became aware of the ramifications of the situation, I had already divined my nature and fortuitously decided to keep silent about it.” 

“Oh.” 

“When I was eighteen, sir, I engaged in a sexual relationship with the young gentleman whom I served. I thought I loved him, and he was fond of me, but that was all. He married, and wanted me to continue on.” 

“Oh, my.” 

“I left his service, sir. I felt it was too difficult to maintain such a relationship under such circumstances, and I disliked the idea of being the one with whom he violated his marriage vows.” 

“But you said you were nineteen, not eighteen…” 

“The year after the gentleman’s marriage, he was discovered engaging in illegal acts with a member of the House of Lords. His name, and actions, were all over the newspapers, and I became aware of it, and of the danger that I made for myself by not choosing my paramours more wisely.” 

“So you gave it all up, Jeeves?” 

“Indeed, sir. A second incident occurred when I was 25 which only affirmed my decision to maintain my celibacy. This situation involved a young boy staying with his relations at a house in the country where I was also visiting with my gentleman of the time.” 

I felt a shiver of dread run down my spine. “Another drink, Jeeves,” I whispered. He silently took my glass and refilled it. “What incident?” I asked, fearing that I knew the story already. 

“The boy was assaulted by one of the household staff, and by all accounts, hurt rather badly. There was no blame to be placed on the child, as he was still quite young, however the individual who perpetrated the assault received ten years in prison with hard labor.” 

“A servant?” 

“One of the underbutlers, I believe. I was so afraid of being discovered, even though I had not engaged in such acts myself for over six years, that I knew I must maintain my composure, lest my reaction condemn me as an invert. I did not believe that all inverts would attack children, for I had never, and have never, had that particular urge, but I was frightened.” 

“Understandably.” 

“Are you all right, sir? You have gone quite pale.” 

“What was his name? The man who attacked the child?” 

“I’m not certain, sir. I believe it started with an T.” 

“Tomkins, or Twillow, or Tamberly. Thomas, maybe. I never knew. They didn’t want to tell me. They thought it would send me to the looney doctors if I talked about it. They thought it would make me an invert. How was I supposed to tell them that I had no desire for anyone? I was too young. I was too hurt…” 

“You, sir? That was you?” 

“Yes, Jeeves. Yes, that young boy was me. And I’ve been dreaming about that incident every night for the past few weeks since someone assaulted me in Cannes. I went to an invert’s club by mistake, and while the gentlemen present were genial and polite when I declined their invitations, there was someone waiting outside who was not as agreeable.” 

“What happened?” I could hear something in his voice, something deep and dark. It sounded like anger, like thunder over rolling hills, and I was glad it wasn’t directed at me. If that blighter from Cannes was here in the flat right that moment, I was sure I’d be hiring a solicitor or three to keep Jeeves out of chokey. 

I felt tears on my cheeks. “He grabbed me. He touched me through my clothes. I hit him with my stick and ran.” I held out my hand for his, but instead of taking my hand, he put his arms around me and he pulled me close against him. I breathed a sigh and continued, needing to finish the explanation. “I lied to Aunt Dahlia and said I’d gotten lost. I couldn’t tell her what really happened. I — I got away this time, Jeeves. I got away, when I couldn’t as a child, but it just brings up so much, makes me remember what I’d rather forget.” I gave a bitter bark of laughter. “Can’t control my dreams, though, don’t you know? Seeing it again every night.” 

“Oh, sir,” he whispered into my hair. “Oh, my poor, sweet master.” 

. 

. 

. 

Jeeves kissed me with a great deal of tenderness after the baring of the souls. We kissed for hours, and I fell asleep in his arms with his kisses still on my lips. 

Jeeves’s kisses followed me to my dreams. In my dream, we were in my childhood bed at Brinkley Court, where I ran to hide as soon as we were home after that horrible incident. In reality, I wouldn’t fit in the bed any longer, being quite a number of inches taller, but in the dream I ran there crying to find Jeeves already waiting. I crawled into his lap and we started kissing, like we’d been doing when I fell asleep, but there was something different about these kisses. There was something different about Jeeves. More intense. More concentrated. 

As we kissed, my body grew hot and I felt feverish. Jeeves soothed me with cool hands, running his fingers and palms over anywhere that hurt. 

It was at this point that I realized that we were naked. I’d never seen Jeeves naked. Never seen in him in anything less than shirtsleeves, and only a handful of times like that. Never seen another man naked, really, but here we both were in the altogether, kissing, with his hands all over me. He laid me down upon the bed and asked where the bad man had touched me, and then he kissed each part I pointed out, his kisses a soothing balm to my pain. He kissed my arms, my legs, my throat. He rolled me to my front and kissed my shoulders, all down my spine, the small of my back and the top of the crease of my buttocks. He massaged my back and buttocks with slick, oily fingers, rubbing his thumbs between my cheeks until I was panting and writhing on the bed. 

Suddenly, I understood why the boys did what they did when we were small. 

He never touched that most secret place, instead flipping me to my back so he could kiss me again, his tongue in my mouth in a hungry way he’d never done when I was awake. His hands were still oily, and soon we were both covered in the stuff, slithering against each other, hot skin on hot skin, a tangle of limbs, moaning and groaning and making a mess of my childhood bed. 

I was begging Jeeves to stroke me harder so I could come off when he was replaced by the excrecense from my youth. 

I screamed. 

I screamed and howled and fought against him, but he was a giant and I was twelve again. No, I was six. 

. 

. 

. 

When I finally scrambled out of Morpheus’ grip, I felt panicky and afraid. Jeeves sat on the bed with me, holding me as one would a frightened child, all the while he pressed a bundle of ice to his eye. 

“Sir? Are you awake?” 

“Jeeves?” I asked, my voice small and scared. 

“Have you taken any injury?” 

“Me? You’re the one with the injury,” I pointed out. “Did I do that?” 

“It is of no matter,” he deferred. “You weren’t yourself.” 

“Jeeves…” 

“Sir, I fear we must cease the affectionate gestures between us,” he said rather suddenly. 

“What?” 

“I fear that our actions have brought upon your nightmares. I do not wish to cause you distress.” 

“Jeeves, those kisses are the only things _not_ causing me distress right now.” 

“Sir?” 

“I need you, Jeeves. I need the kisses. I need to know that there are people out there who will treat me nicely, who will look after me when I need it.” 

“I will do all of those things, sir, however…” 

“No, Jeeves. We’re not stopping. That’s my final word on the matter.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

. 

. 

. 

There was something about telling Jeeves the story of my childhood trauma that lightened my mood. I’ve always been a cheery kind of cove, but sometimes, it felt a little forced. It didn’t feel that way any longer, and a peacefulness settled between us at Berkley Mansions. Jeeves, always solicitous of me and my needs, became even more devoted, if that's the word. The feudal spirit overtook him at times, making it possible for him to anticipate my needs with even more accuracy and alacrity. 

For example, if the young master came home less than bucked up, he would offer a wordless embrace before handing me the b.  & s. I needed to rejuvenate the tissues. In the middle of the night when he woke me from a nightmare, he would allow me to cling to him while I sobbed out my fear, then sit beside me in bed and let me hold him until I slept, my head resting on his thigh. If it weren’t for the bally nightmares, I’d have been happy about the situation, since being in his arms felt remarkably topping. Once or twice, as I fell asleep, I felt his lips upon my forehead as he whispered some sort of endearment along the lines of ‘my dear Bertram.’ I never let on that I heard him, or felt the kiss, but rather cherished them as small spots of pure happiness in my otherwise lonely life.


	13. Gussie and the Wooster Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gussie Fink-Nottle gets into a spot of bother with Claude and Eustace. He goes to Bertie (or Jeeves) to help him out of the soup.

For a man with as many friends as I have, I felt alone far more often than anyone would suspect. Something about being alone in a crowd, or some such rot. Jeeves would know. Probably something one of his philosopher johnnies writes about. 

There are a few friends upon whom I can count, school friends, don’t you know, who have known this Bertram almost his entire life. 

Gussie Fink-Nottle is one of those friends. One evening, he arrived at the Drones already intoxicated. As he was a man who never drank alcohol, this was an unusual sight. After an hour or two, I dragged him home to sleep it off. Any friend would have done it, but I felt a brotherly affection for the man. We’d both been engaged to the same girl, once, and that, in my mind, made us brothers. Well, I’d been engaged to her several times, actually, but that wasn’t the point. He was engaged to her, and I wanted it to stay that way. 

Jeeves took our coats and was in the kitchen making Gussie a restorative, or perhaps getting the spare bedroom ready, when Gussie threw himself down on the chesterfield nearly on top of me. 

“You know, Bertie, you’re an ass,” he declared loudly. 

“Now, I say, Gussie,” I answered. “There’s no need for that.” This was a theme of his whenever he drank. It had resulted in the accusation of cheating in school for the Scripture Knowledge prize, something I’d won and he hadn’t, and he remained bitter about it. I won it fair and square, as up and coming as a beetle on a bung-hole. I read the entire Scripture, I’ll have you know, from front to back. There were some distinctly fruity stories in there, along with all that talk of God and His Kingdom and those boring lists of names and rules. I don’t remember it now, of course, but back then I could recite entire passages. 

“You’re an ass,” he repeated. “And you know what I do to asses?” 

“Um, no, not really,” I replied, trying to edge myself away from him, for his body language was rather more forward than I’d ever known it. “I don’t want to know, actually.” 

“I eat them!” he said, falling into a fit of hysterical giggles. “I eat asses,” he said again, louder, as if he thought I couldn’t hear him. “I eat asses!” he shouted. 

“Gussie!” I hissed. I wasn’t sure what eating asses was all about, but it sounded like something an invert would do, and while I’d suspected that Gussie was an invert for a long time, I hadn’t realized he was so open about it to shout like that. 

“I’m in love with you, Bertie,” Gussie said, wrapping both his arms around me and trying to kiss me. It was more of a slobber, actually. Nothing like the tenderness between Jeeves and I. One of Gussie’s hands found its way between my legs, and I struggled against him, and as he was more gentle than the man in Cannes, I felt something stir. I still didn’t want it. He tried to kiss me again. “I love you! I love you!” 

“Jeeves!” I called, feeling panic bubbling like champagne in my throat. “Jeeves!” 

I heard Jeeves enter the room, no doubt beckoned by the shouting. He grabbed Gussie and hauled him off me, dragging him to a wall and shoving him hard against it. He pressed his forearm against Gussie’s throat and gave him what Gussie later described as a murderous look. 

“Control yourself, Mr. Fink-Nottle,” Jeeves said in an unwavering voice full of venom. 

“Arck! Ahck!” 

“I will call you a taxi, sir, and should you rethink your actions of this evening and apologize properly to Mr. Wooster, I will reconsider calling the police about this violation.” 

Jeeves released him and Gussie slipped to the floor to remain unmoving until the taxi arrived. Jeeves walked over to me and assisted me in righting my clothing. 

“Are you unharmed, sir?” he asked, his voice deferential and worried. 

“Fine, fine,” I said. “Just startled, don’t you know.” I paused. “You needn’t call the police, Jeeves. I’m sure Gussie meant no harm. He was high as a kite, what?” 

“I will reconsider calling the authorities following Mr. Fink-Nottle’s apology,” he said in that voice that told me the matter was settled and he wouldn’t budge an inch. 

I refused to kiss Jeeves goodnight. He didn’t seem surprised. 

I did, however, have a question. 

“Jeeves? I say, can I ask you something?” 

“Of course, sir,” he answered. He resettled the pillows under my head. 

“Gussie said something I didn’t understand.” 

“What was that, sir?” 

“He said that he eats asses. What on Earth could that mean?” 

I could feel Jeeves’s discomfort from where I lay. There was something charged in the room, some dark energy. 

“Mr. Fink-Nottle is referring, sir, I believe, to an activity often enjoyed by men of a certain inclination.” 

“Inverts, you mean?” 

“Yes, sir,” he said, rather stiffly. 

“So it’s something sexual?” I persisted. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, go on then. Tell me what it means.” 

“I would rather not, sir.” 

“Why not? It’s not like I’m asking you to do it. I just want to know—“ 

Jeeves cleared his throat. “Sir, it is a very intimate act between gentlemen. That is all I will say on the matter.” 

I frowned. “Oh.” 

“I do not wish to upset you, sir. Given some of the things we have discussed about your past, I am concerned that you will be unduly distressed upon hearing the details.” 

“So, instead you’ll let me stew on the phrase and cook up all kinds of scenarios? Work myself into a panic that it happened to me?” 

“I highly doubt that it happened to you, sir. Monsters such as that man would not do such a thing to the child they were attacking.” 

My frown only deepened. 

“If that will be all, sir?” 

I waved him away. 

. 

. 

. 

I was at the Drones the next day when I heard Oofy Prosser and Pussy Makerscomb laughing in the corner. Still recovering from a horrid nightmare but unable to stay at home any longer, their laughter sounded like nails grating on the schoolroom blackboard. 

“Did he do it?” Oofy asked. 

“Did he ever!” Pussy responded. “That man of Wooster’s threw him out on his arse!” Obviously, they were talking about Gussie and me. I shifted to listen better. 

“Pickles Pinkerton-Smythe stood under the window and heard the whole thing. Gussie came crawling back to the club, told them he’d done it, and collected his paper. They must have believed him, with Pickles’s testimony, to give it to him like that. I watched him burn it myself,” Pussy said. 

“So everyone knows, but there’s no proof?” Oofy clarified. “Do you think there’s another paper on him?” 

“Possibly. I doubt they’d give up the only one. And with the rest of what’s in that book, no one here is going to say anything,” Pussy added as they moved away. 

I puzzled over this for a few minutes until Tuppy Glossop wandered over and began talking about one of my cousin Angela’s hats. Apparently it made her look like a pelican. I doubted it, but Tuppy’s my friend, so I had to nod and listen. Catsmeat Potter-Philbright joined in, having seen the hat in question. 

“Hello, Cousin Bertie,” said the voice of Eustace Wooster in my ear. 

“Yes, hello, Bertie, dear,” Claude Wooster added in my other ear. They were both frightfully close to me, and I felt rather claustro-whatsit. “Where does that friend of yours stay when he’s in London?” 

“Yes, the one with the newt obsession,” Eustace added in explanation. 

“Who? Gussie?” 

“That’s right, Gussie,” Claude said. There was a certain laziness in his voice that sent shivers down my spine. I never liked it when they sounded like that. 

“Where does he stay?” Eustace asked. 

“Yes, tell us where he stays,” Claude repeated. 

“What do you need Gussie for?” I asked at the same time as Tuppy informed them of the name of Gussie’s preferred address. 

“We like him,” Eustace said. “We thought we’d call on him while we were here.” 

“What, and ask me to stand the three of you for lunch?” 

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!” Claude said. 

“You’re such a generous soul,” Eustace added. “We’ll come by your place tomorrow, say, two o’clock?” 

“I didn’t —“ 

“Ta ta,” Eustace said, patting my cheek in a far too familiar way, even for a cousin. 

“See you tomorrow,” Claude whispered in my ear, his breath hot. 

“But!—“ 

They were gone. 

Tuppy sighed loudly and bit into a cracker he’d had in his pocket. “Now, about that hat of Angela’s…” 

. 

. 

. 

I called on Bingo first, but he had no ideas about what was going on with the twins. I went to Biffy’s place, but neither he nor Mabel were home. I went back to the Drones, but everyone had left for places unknown. It was a distressed and confused B. W. Wooster that alighted at Berkley Mansions that evening. 

I tripped over a fellow sitting in front of my doorway. 

“Steady on,” I said as we helped each other to our feet. 

“Terribly sorry,” he answered in a soft voice that sounded vaguely familiar. “I hadn’t decided to ring yet,” he added, as if that explained why he was sitting on the floor of my hallway. 

I sighed and invited him in. What else was one to do? 

“Welcome home, sir. Good evening, Lord Rainsby.” Jeeves, as always, could place who the man was. Dogface Rainsby, friend of my cousins. The man who’d brought the cats that helped me avoid the matrimonial clutches of Honoria Glossop. It seemed I owed him a favor. Not that I mind helping out friends, but with the twins acting strange, I wasn’t sure what would come of this interview. 

“Your man, do you trust him?” Rainsby asked as soon as Jeeves left to alter the evening meal to include my unexpected guest. 

“With my life,” I said firmly. 

“But, well, that is, if you were to do something that wasn’t, well, above board…” 

“Dogface, old thing, I would trust Jeeves with _anything._ He’s gotten me out of some pretty hot soup over the years,” I added. 

“Oh, please don’t call me that. I’ve always hated that nickname. Call me Marky. For Marcus Aurelius. My father loved history, and all that educational rot. He made me learn Italian, Latin, _and_ Greek!” 

We both shuddered at the horror of all that education. 

The story came out in fits and starts over drinks and the delectable meal Jeeves served us. Rainsby was at Oxford with my cousins. We already knew this. He had been, for quite some time, their lover. Even from across the room, I could tell that Jeeves didn’t move a single molecule at this disclosure. I reassured Rainsby that I was an open-minded sort of chap, and this sort of thing didn’t bother me. Not that I was that way inclined, I felt the need to add. Rainsby assured me that he’d had no doubts. 

Recently, the twins had discovered an old diary from years before. This diary described some of the goings-on at school. By the time we were there, few of the lads still partook of that particular vice, as it was more of an Eton thing, and those who did were now, by and large, inverts. Well, now the twins had access to knowledge about my friends that could land said friends in chokey if the twins didn’t get what they wanted. Rainsby had been dropped like a hot potato in favor of sweeter fruits. 

It was the work of but a moment for Jeeves to surmise that Gussie’s strange behavior the night before had something to do with my cousins. I conjectured that Gussie’s name could be in the book, and explained what I had overheard at the club. 

“Most distressing, sir,” Jeeves murmured. He held out a light for my cigarette. “And you are certain that the Mssrs. Wooster keep the volume on their persons at all times?” he asked Rainsby. 

“Yes,” Rainsby answered. “They always switch it between them, so no one knows which one has it.” 

“Jeeves, what if we —“ 

“Sir?” 

“They’re bringing Gussie by for lunch tomorrow,” I told Jeeves. “Haven’t had time to update you on that circ. What if we arranged for their clothing or hair to be soiled, so that you could search their clothes for the book while they bathed?” 

“I say, that’s brilliant!” Rainsby exclaimed. 

“Sir, it would be most improper of me to —“ 

“Do you have another plan?” I interrupted. 

“Not at this moment, sir. Allow me to think on the problem.” 

“In the meantime, get started on this,” I ordered. 

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said, disappearing into the kitchen without another word. I had the sense that he wasn’t pleased with my plan, but I thought it had more to do with me coming up with something so astute, if that’s the word I want, that _he_ hadn’t come up with first. Kind of like the time I suggested that Aunt Dahlia skip dinner to get Uncle Tom to give her money for her ladies’ magazine. It hadn’t turned out to work quite the way I’d planned, but for fifteen minutes or so, she thought I had some sort of intelligence, which was a nice change from the norm. 

“Bertie, old top, your man is rather remarkable, isn’t he?” Rainsby asked. “Didn’t twitch even the slightest hair when I explained things. I was rather frightened. You don’t think he’d call the police, would he?” 

“No, Jeeves is better than that. Like I said, I’d trust him with my life.” I paused. “He’s quite protective of me and my friends,” I added, deciding not to tell Rainsby about Jeeves’s proclivities. It wasn’t my secret to tell, after all, and if Jeeves were interested in Rainsby knowing, he’d have to tell the man himself. 

“Good-o. Do you fancy a show? There haven’t been any really agreeable ones up at Oxford, lately, and I was hoping I’d get to take in one or two while I was here.” 

Not knowing the schedule, I rang for Jeeves, who arranged tickets for us at one of the theatres I frequent. We got home rather late, Rainsby supporting me with an arm around my waist. Jeeves opened the door for us, and I staggered into his arms. 

“Jeeves,” I mumbled, clinging to him to keep the room from spinning. “The room’s spinning,” I informed him. 

“Indeed, sir,” he answered. “If you will retire to your bedroom for a few moments, I will settle Lord Rainsby in the spare room and attend you.” 

I grabbed his collar, feeling the need to tell him something important. “Jeeves!” 

“Sir?” 

“Marky’s an invert,” I whispered loudly. I daresay Rainsby heard me, for he made some sort of protesting sound. “He’s a good egg, though. You’ll like him once you get to know him.” 

I wanted to kiss Jeeves when he came to help me out of the togs, but he wouldn’t have anything of it. Nor did he kiss me in the morning, reminding me in a harsh whisper that we had a guest. I must admit I sulked a little. I wanted my kisses, having missed them the day before. 

Gussie arrived early to lunch, in time to hear me practicing my newest favorite on the old ivories. Jeeves tells me that he wouldn’t look at him, simply handed him his hat, etc., and came into the sitting room to find me. 

“Bertie,” he said, stopping across the room from me. “Bertie, I’m so very sorry! I don’t know what came over me! I wouldn’t — that is, I really, really wouldn’t have said those things if —“ 

“All is well, my good friend,” I interrupted, turning from the piano. “Rainsby explained all.” 

“He did?” Gussie blurted, looking around for Rainsby, no doubt. “All? As in, everything? Who’s Rainsby?” 

“He’s an ex- _”friend”_ of my cousins. He was most thorough in his explanations,” I replied. “But he’s not here anymore, in case you were wondering. He’ll be back later. We’re going to a show.” 

“Thorough,” Gussie repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before. “How thorough is thorough?” he asked after a minute. 

“A little of this, a little of that,” I said, waving a hand negligently. “You should come out with us.” 

“And you don’t mind?” 

“Mind? Why should I mind? What you do in your private life doesn’t effect what I do in mine, does it? No? I thought not. See? All squared away.” 

Gussie muttered to himself for a moment. I sighed. 

“Gussie? What’s that eating asses thing you mentioned yesterday all about?” 

I think he jumped a mile and a half at my question. 

“Surely you and Jeeves have —“ 

“Your orange juice, Mr. Fink-Nottle,” Jeeves said, interrupting any answer Gussie might have given, as he drifted in with a glass of the cold stuff for Gussie and a cocktail for me. Gussie took a hesitant step away from Jeeves. 

“Don’t worry about Jeeves, old fruit,” I declared after sipping the afternoon ambrosia. “He’s got the whole story, and won’t be making a fuss. Certainly not now that you’ve apologized so nicely. Isn’t that right, Jeeves?” 

Jeeves coughed softly. “Correct, sir. You have my apologies, Mr. Fink-Nottle. I was not aware at the time of the coercion involved in your actions.” 

“Oh. Well. I guess that’s fine, then, Jeeves,” Gussie said. “You wouldn’t have happened to have thought up a scheme to get me out of this bother, eh, Jeeves?” 

“Actually, sir, Mr. Wooster has come up with the simplest plan that will yield the fastest results.” 

“You, Bertie? Really?” 

“Indeed, Gussie, old fruit.” 

“I don’t believe it. I honestly don’t believe you’d have an idea that Jeeves would approve of, let alone adopt.” 

I felt myself bristling at this, just in time for the doorbell to ring. Jeeves excused himself to let in my cousins, while Gussie and I took seats on one of the sofas. There was no time for personal pride when there were friends’ reputations on the line. 

. 

. 

. 

It ended up being a rather long day, and with both Marky and Gussie staying at the flat that night, Marky because he didn’t have anywhere to go, and Gussie because he didn’t feel he could return home in ruined clothes when his hadn’t arrived yet from his flat, I didn’t get my goodnight kisses that evening, either. Nor did I get a kiss when Jeeves helped me into the bath earlier in the day. Or the next morning. 

I don’t need to tell you that we set upon it with quite a will once the flat was empty of interlopers. 

Mind you, how Jeeves managed to soil everyone’s clothing except his own remains a mystery, especially when one considers the honey, feathers, flour, honeybees and fire extinguisher that necessitated bathing and changing. Being the host, I, of course, offered my house to my guests, and Claude and Eustace, being the selfish creatures that they are, took the first set of baths, thereby giving Jeeves, as the only servant present, full access to their wardrobe and the small notebook tucked away in Eustace’s pocket. 

Gussie, upon examining the document, exclaimed that it was indeed the book to which everyone had been referring. Jeeves destroyed it, though I believe he read it first, as a Braille copy found its way onto my nightstand a few days later. Jeeves denies knowing anything about that, but between you and me, I know it was him who left it for me. No one else could have done it. 

In later years we discussed some of the content, when I needed sympathetic friends with whom to converse, but that is a tale for another time. It should be of no surprise to you that Jeeves can memorize an entire notebook in one sitting. It certainly wasn’t a surprise to me. 

Nor was it a surprise to find out that Gussie and Marky ended up together, having married cousins raised as sisters, so they all could live in one large mansion somewhere in the country. According to Gussie, the girls found lovers of their own after the children had been born to both couples, creating a satisfying harmony that worked for them all, though I never quite understood it, myself.


	14. New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Jeeves have some adventures in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who care about historical accuracy, the Perkins Brailler was invented in the 1950's. I wanted Bertie to have one, however, so in this world it was made in the 20's.

After the mess with Gussie and my cousins, escaping to New York seemed the best solution. Putting an ocean between me and my entire family felt like my only recourse to stay among the living. And among the happily-unmarried. Jeeves heartily approved of the change of venue of the Wooster Household, having desired to travel (with me) for quite some time. Though we still hadn’t made it to Santorini, we’d been together long enough that he’d has a week off, which he’d ended up cutting short by three days because neither of us could bear the separation. I promised him Santorini would be our next European adventure, but it just didn’t seem far enough away from everyone in England. 

It took me but days to have acquired a group of friends, notwithstanding my membership in the Pumpkin Club, the Drone’s brother club in New York. I spent quite a lot of energy getting to know my new friends, leaving a small rift between Jeeves and I. We spent less time together, and though it pained me, it also gave me a bit of a relief from the dreams that had been plaguing me almost since I met him. They’d been happening with increasing frequency the more we kissed, don’t you know. 

We still kissed in the evenings, however, no matter how late I managed to slither home. As I’d said months before, unlike the color of my socks or ties, it was not on the list of negotiables in our relationship. 

And our kisses when I returned from my cross-country trip with George and his dratted play? They made me wonder why I’d ever left. 

With all the nuisance of Aunt Agatha’s friend’s son staying with us, Cyril Bassington-Bassington, my cousins showing up, another of Bingo Little’s romances, Tuppy Glossop’s failed financial foibles, and my friend George getting me involved with Florence Cray once more on account of his finance, her cousin, well, there was barely any time for me to think while I was in New York, let alone breathe. I was there quite a number of times, and all the visits blend together after a while, what? Every day there was a new crisis being bunged down in front of me and Jeeves. After a while, Jeeves started to look rather peaked, as well, and when Jeeves starts looking peaked… there’s definitely something amiss. 

I first noticed it when we kissed goodnight one evening. He’d taken a seat on the bed, and we had our arms around each other, but he hadn’t moved to actually kiss me. Instead, he simply held me and gave a bit of a sigh. 

“Jeeves? Is everything all right?” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize, sir. I will be better directly.” 

“It wasn’t another of Bingo’s ties, now, was it? Because the one with dancing fish he made sure I saw, well, it was probably the most atrocious thing I’ve seen in a long time.” 

“Fortunately, I have not seen that specimen of Mr. Little’s attire, sir,” Jeeves answered, sounding pleased to have avoided the issue. I rather thought he was the lucky one in that respect. 

“Oh. Good-o.” 

“If that will be all, sir?” he asked after the application of the Jeeves labial muscles to the Wooster. 

“Right ho, Jeeves. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, sir.” 

He drifted from the room. 

The next morning, I found out what the problem was. Or, rather, I figured out a part of it when he mentioned an uncle’s upcoming nuptials and his desire to see his family. 

Jeeves was lonely. 

I didn’t blame him. We’d been spending less time together, even if we didn’t consider my little trip, and he didn’t have a cadre of friends about the city the way I did, so his opportunities for companionship were more limited. Not that he’d been particularly socially-minded back in Old Blighty, but at least there he had the Ganymede Club, and acquaintances about the metrop. 

I made an effort to create errands I needed to do myself, but that also needed his presence to help me get them done. I thought it was a rather brilliant plan, don’t you know. 

. 

. 

. 

“A month?” I asked, my voice dripping with incredulity. At least, I think it was incredulity. It was the kind of voice that says, ‘how can you really be telling me it takes a bally month when I know for a fact that you’re an idiot?’ Jeeves often uses nicer versions of that voice on me, as if he couldn’t believe I’d just said what I did and he wanted very much to tell the young master to go boil his head or re-read the encyclopedia. “A month? In London it would take a week!” 

“Well, ya ain’t in London,” the store clerk said in his grating American accent. “And it’d only be a month if I send it to Boston and ya pay for three copies so three people can type it at the same time.” 

“But that’s ridiculous! Unheard of! Unacceptable!” 

“Accept it, buddy, because that’s the best I can do.” 

“But it’s a small book of poetry,” I persisted, waving the book in question in his general direction. 

“And I’ll have to send it to Boston,” the man repeated in a voice designed to pacify a child. It only made me more perturbed. 

“Jeeves!” I called. 

My man appeared at my elbow. “Is something amiss, sir?” he asked in his usual calm manner. 

“This fellow says that it will take a full month to have this brailled,” I explained, showing him the book that he’d helped me find not five minutes previous. “And that he’ll have to send it to Boston to do it! What on Earth could be in Boston that’s not in New York?” 

“I believe, sir, that the clerk is referring to the Perkins School for the Blind, located outside Boston in an area called Watertown. There are a number of teachers of the blind there who would, I believe, be willing to take a small commission in exchange for transcribing the book for you.” 

“Oh,” I said, the wind gone from my sails, as the saying goes. “Well, no choice but to send it to Boston, then, I suppose.” I put the book on the counter. “Take care of the details, would you, Jeeves? And get something for yourself while we’re here. Spinoza or something. You know the ones you like.” 

“Thank you, sir, that is most generous.” I’d gone no more than a step when I heard Jeeves’s distinct throat-clearing. “If I may suggest, sir, I could transcribe the book for you myself.” 

“You’d do that, Jeeves?” I asked, turning back to him. “But it’ll take so long!” 

“Even so, sir, I would like to preform this service for you,” he said, and I could tell from his voice that it was important to him to help me in this way. 

“Very well, Jeeves,” I said, giving him a large grin. 

“I have never seen you show an interest in poetry before, sir,” Jeeves commented as we returned to the flat, the book safely in Jeeves’s basket of marketing. I’d taken to going to the market with him occasionally, as well, so I could learn a bit more of his world. It was an interesting activity, though much louder than I expected, with people shouting out about their wares and others fighting over said wares. How Jeeves managed to slip into the fray and come out of it with the choicest cuts of meats and ripest fruits and vegetables without raising his voice or giving it to someone in the nose, I have no idea to this day. 

“In fact, sir, you have expressed an aversion to that style of literature, if I am not mistaken,” he continued. “Considering comments you have made about Miss Bassett’s attempts in that genre.” 

“No, Jeeves, you’re not mistaken. I usually can’t stand the stuff. Read far too much of it in school, don’t you know. But this is a special case. It’s by a friend of mine, a chap by the name of Rocky I met at a party a few weeks ago.” 

“Mr. Rockmetteller Todd, sir?” 

“That’s the one.” 

“An enthusiastic individual, if I remember correctly,” he said. “If somewhat lacking in sartorial sensibilities. He wore a soft-breasted shirt to dinner,” he added, a small shudder passing through his frame. I patted his arm and vowed not to tell him about Rocky’s comment about not getting out of his pajamas until five o’clock that he’d said when I’d stayed with him in Long Island once. 

“Yes, yes. Well, he writes poetry of all things, and I promised I’d read some of it. Can’t say I’ll understand it, mind you, all that poetry and flowery language goes well over this Wooster’s head, but a promise to a friend is a promise to a friend, and Bertram does not go back on his promises to his friends!” I declared firmly. 

“Indeed, sir. It is an admirable quality of yours,” Jeeves said, his voice full of warmth and approval. My insides felt like they were melting at that tone. I wanted him to keep using it with me and vowed to find a song to play on the piano that would bring it out. Maybe one of the Classical composers he liked so much? We stepped into the lift. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster, Mr. Jeeves,” said the lift attendant. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Coneybear,” Jeeves said for us both. “I trust you had a pleasant weekend with the children?” 

“Oh, yes, sir, yes we did! We went to the fair and I won a dolly for my little Petunia at the horseshoe toss.” 

“That sounds like an invigorating time for all,” Jeeves commented. “Good day, Mr. Coneybear.” 

“You gents have a wonderful afternoon,” Mr. Coneybear called after us as we entered our apartment. 

“A dolly? How old is little Petunia?” I asked. 

“Miss Coneybear is four, sir,” Jeeves answered. “It was her birthday this past Saturday.” 

“Oh, I say, I didn’t even get her a present!” I exclaimed. “This won’t do.” 

“On the contrary, sir, it was your generosity that paid the entrance fee to the fair for the entire family of six,” Jeeves informed me. “I took the liberty of arranging it ahead of time with Mr. Coneybear.” 

“Jeeves, you are a marvel,” I declared without hesitation. 

“Thank you, sir,” Jeeves replied. “Shall I prepare your usual refreshment?” 

“Yes, Jeeves, thank you,” I answered, already moving towards the piano. As I played Bach and sipped the cocktail Jeeves created with his usual brilliance, I heard the sound of Jeeves typing on the brailler in the kitchen. One of the new models created at the very same Perkins School for the Blind Jeeves had mentioned earlier, it was much faster than the usual slate and stylus or even the manual brailler Jeeves had commissioned for me at home that was too delicate to make the journey overseas. To France? Yes. To America? No. 

The new machine, called the Perkins Brailler after the school where it was invented, acted as a typewriter, except for instead of letters, it had six keys representing the six possible dots in a braille cell. I loved mine. I loved it so much that I bought a second for Jeeves, just so I wouldn’t have to share. 

My little reminisces came so much quicker when I could type as fast as I thought. 

Rocky came to the city a week or so after this conversation, and ended up staying with me, as Jeeves was helping him out with some aunt trouble of his. As I’d told Jeeves, I’d barely understood a word of Rocky’s poetry. Oh, I understood the _words_ , most of them, anyway, but the poems? What he was trying to say? No. I asked Jeeves about it, and he quoted some other poet talking about the process of writing and reading poetry, and I told him to leave it be. At least I’d read the dashed thing, like I’d said I would. 

In order to help Rocky, someone needed to go out on the town and write him little reports so that he could send them to his aunt, so she would think that he was enjoying himself in the big city so that he wouldn’t lose his allowance. I knew all about that, having aunts myself, and quite a number of friends who relied on aging relatives for their allowances. Technically, I received mine from Uncle George, but with the trust fund from my parents and the stipends each of my aunts saw fit to give me, I didn’t have to worry about the Wooster accounts going dry anytime soon, especially with Jeeves managing my money so effectively and increasing it with little bets here and there that added to the coffers. The job for Rocky fell on Jeeves, as my writer-friend Bicky Bickerseth didn’t have time, trying to pacify his father about having a lucrative bit of employment, himself. 

At first I was a bit jealous of Jeeves going out to the clubs as a gentleman, spending my money on fun that I could have been having, but the opportunity to get to know Rocky was a good one. He was a genuinely good egg, and I needed more good eggs in the Wooster basket, as Jeeves suggests from time to time. After a few nights, I became jealous of the clubs themselves, who got to spend hours and hours with Jeeves, while I sat at home with just Rocky and my brailler for company. 

Now I knew how Jeeves must have been feeling, those first weeks when I was out so often. Rocky was good, if strange, company, but he wasn’t Jeeves. He couldn’t complete my sentences, and he didn’t tuck me in at night with a kiss or three dozen. And with Jeeves getting home after I’d joined the ranks of the dreamers, as well as the fact that Rocky was staying with us, there were no kisses at all for quite a long time. 

One evening, Rocky and I drank rather more than we should have after getting back from a show. Without Jeeves to help pour and keep track, I gave us more and stronger drinks than either of us were used to. Then we got to that point where we were drunk enough to think that drinking more was the best idea ever. 

We started talking of this and that, and before I knew it, I’d confessed my all to him about Jeeves and our situation. I think he thought it was steamier than it was in reality, though from hearing some of his exploits… He might not like the city, but he knew all about pansy clubs and how to read the secret code of the invert in America. I imagine he didn’t have many friends to talk to about this, because he started giving me details of his lovers, past and present, and sighed a lot, and said it was such a relief to talk to someone who understood but didn’t want to sleep with him. I assured him I didn’t. We had another drink or two. 

I don’t know how it happened, but when Jeeves crept into the flat at half past three, Rocky was sprawled out naked on the sofa for all to see, while I dozed on the floor behind said sofa, a small pillow the only thing keeping me modest. Jeeves’s gasp woke me, for I’d never heard such an odd sound come from the man’s larynx. Rocky gave a deep groan of some kind, then a sigh, and the strange slapping sound that had invaded my dreams ceased. Rocky giggled. 

“Just in time, Jeeves!” Rocky said brightly. “Care to give me a hand? Bertie’s being such a poop about the whole thing and won’t help.” 

Jeeves must have given him that stony stare he does so well, for Rocky was out of the room faster than a piranha after a chicken. Jeeves scooped me up in his arms and carried me to bed. I clung to him, and wouldn’t let him go when he moved to release me. 

“I love you, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, and tried to kiss him. 

“Mr. Wooster!” he barked, angry. He’d never expressed his anger _towards_ me in quite that way before. Usually it was cold silences or destroying my clothing, not hot rage. Not that it was rage, I don’t think. Just embarrassment and fear. Probably more fear than anything else, now that I look back on it with the eyes of time. 

“I love you! I told Rocky, and he said I should kiss you, and I told him I’d already done it, and he said why hadn’t we slept together and I said we had, only I think he meant something different than I did, and then he asked if you were a top or a bottom, and I had no idea what he meant, and he wanted to show me, but I didn’t let him, because it involved taking off our clothes, and I tried really really hard to keep them on because you’re not supposed to take off your clothes for anyone but your valet, but it got so hot, and then I decided it wouldn’t hurt to take just some of them off, but it was still hot so I took the rest off and then I fell asleep, and I think he must have, too, because he never showed me that thing about tops and bottoms, and can you show me?” 

Jeeves dressed me in my pajamas in record time, practically forcing my limbs to do what he wanted. I continued babbling the entire time, talking about Rocky and his lovers. He had many, he’d told me, all men, and they seemed like nice enough chaps from the stories, but he said he wouldn’t introduce me because he thought they’d all want me and he didn’t want the competition, even though I’d told him very firmly that I wasn’t the type of gentleman looking for companionship of any kind like _that_. Jeeves remained completely silent throughout, causing me no little worry. 

“Jeeves! Don’t be mad. It’s not his fault. He didn’t do anything! He just explained some things you never would.” 

Jeeves didn’t say a single word. 

“Please, Jeeves, don’t be angry with me. I didn’t kiss him! I didn’t even want to!” 

Jeeves pressed a hand to my chest to keep me lying down. “Go to sleep, Mr. Wooster,” he said. 

“Please don’t call me that, Jeeves. You only call me that when you’re angry. Please, please don’t be angry with me!” 

“Sleep,” he repeated, leaving me alone in the dark. 

. 

. 

. 

I woke with the hangover to kill all hangovers. Rocky was similarly afflicted. Jeeves was nowhere in sight. Nor was he in the flat at all. We looked. All we found was a note in braille on the kitchen table. It read: 

_“Mr. Wooster, I apologize for the suddenness of my request, however I crave the boon of taking my evening off today. Jeeves.”_

The only good thing about the morning is that Rocky didn’t remember anything of the night before. No memory of our conversation, no memory of me extolling Jeeves’s virtues. No memory about telling me about his male lovers, though he quickly got onto the topic when I tentatively asked him about one of his poems that seemed, to the Wooster’s non-literary eye, to be about lovers. He explained that it was about a man named Maxwell he’d loved several years ago. 

Somehow, we managed to bathe and dress ourselves, though food was out of the question. Rocky made coffee, unable to make proper tea. I wished desperately for the darjeeling, but my own attempts at making tea had been rather less successful than most, so I just drank the horrid coffee. How Jeeves could drink the stuff with his breakfast, I had no idea, but I’d tasted it on his breath most mornings when he brought my tea, so he must have enjoyed it, or thought he needed it, or something. 

I sent Rocky away somewhere past noon and hied it to my club for luncheon. It was a disheartened Bertram who returned to the flat around one in the morning, not sure if Jeeves would be back. After my rash, drunken words the night before, which I remembered with startling clarity for having had so much to drink, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was taking the day off to write his letter of resignation. I’d spent the day drinking. I took in a show I barely paid attention to, and dinner had been disappointing, to say the least. 

Jeeves greeted me, as he always does, taking my hat and stick and proceeding to escort me to the bedroom to remove the outer crust. 

“Jeeves?” 

“I apologize for being absent today, sir,” Jeeves said solemnly. “However, I required time to —“ 

“You don’t need to explain, Jeeves,” I interrupted. “I was out of line because of the drink. It’s I who should be apologizing.” 

“Sir, what you said to me, did you mean it?” 

“I don’t know, Jeeves. I don’t think I really know what love is,” I answered. I frowned down at my hands, resting on my knees. “Everyone always talks of love, but no one’s been able to explain it to me. Can you?” 

“Alas, sir, it is a feeling that one has or does not have. It is as indescribable as any other emotion.” 

“But you feel it. You’ve said so. You must know what it’s like.” 

“I don’t have the words, sir.” 

I sighed and lay back. “If even _you_ don’t have the words, Jeeves, there must not be any. You know the right words for any situation I’ve ever come up against.” By this point, Jeeves had dressed me in my heliotrope pajamas and was tidying the room. I rolled over a few times, relishing the silk against my skin. 

“When we talked a while ago, you said that part of knowing you were an invert had to do with physical responses,” I murmured when I’d stopped moving, lying on my stomach with my chin propped in my hands. 

“Indeed, sir, however, that was a reference to sexual desire rather than love. The two are not always present at the same time for the same individual, though that is what people prefer and the poets and novelists tell us that everyone experiences.” 

“The ‘one true love’ thing, Jeeves? The one person to fulfill all of one’s wants and needs?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“But that’s ridiculous! No one person can be that to another! Everyone needs friends.” 

“It is gratifying to hear that you believe that, sir. I concur with that opinion.” 

“So sex and love are different,” I mused to myself. I scratched at my chin and rolled to my back. “But sometimes they go together.” 

“Will there be anything else tonight, sir?” Jeeves asked. 

“Just our kiss, Jeeves,” I answered. “If that’s all right with you. Rocky said he wouldn’t be back until the day after tomorrow.” 

“It is,” he replied, walking over to me. He bent at the waist and kissed me on the lips, holding himself steady with a hand on my shoulder and another hand in my hair, cupping the back of my head. 

I sighed when he released me. 

“I wish I could say it with certainty, Jeeves,” I whispered. “But I don’t think I can.” 

Jeeves quirked his lips. “I know, sir. You have been quite clear about your romantic and sexual desires, or lack thereof. That does not change my feelings towards you, or my dedication to your happiness.” 

“But what about yours, Jeeves? What about your happiness?” 

“Seeing you happy gives me intense pleasure, sir. Every night you pass without a nightmare brings me joy. Every smile you give me adds to my happiness.” 

I clutched at his hand and brought it to my lips. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

We kissed some more, making up for lost time. He shut off the light on the way out of the room. 

. 

. 

.


	15. Green Carnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie finds himself in a bit of a bother with Jeeves over a flower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The novel, The Green Carnation, by Robert Hichens was a very thinly veiled characterization of Oscar Wilde and his lover, Lord Alfred Douglas. People are not sure, to this day, if Hichens meant it as an attack or tribute, as Hichens was himself gay and a friend of Wilde, but the book was used as evidence against Wilde in his trials of gross indecency that led to his ruin, imprisonment and eventual death.

Several months after the story I just related, I had an interaction with Gussie that’s worth noting. It goes as follows: 

“Bertie!” 

“Tuppy, old thing!” 

“I say, Bertie, where’s your carnation?” Tuppy asked, after giving the old Wooster shoulders a rather hearty slap in greeting. He was like his cousin Honoria in that respect, and I had to roll the shoulders a bit to make sure nothing had been thrown out of its socket. 

“Carnation? I hate those things,” I answered. “Reminds me too much of one of Aunt Agatha’s nightdresses that I had the misfortune of seeing once when I was a squirt.” 

“But it’s Green Carnation Day!” Bingo Little said, coming over. “Everyone’s wearing them. It’s all the rage. Can’t wear it at home, though, the Mrs. would throw a fit.” 

I looked around the Drone’s Club smoking room and saw blurry bits of green floating about everywhere. Presumably on people’s buttonholes. I sighed and allowed them to replace the carefully selected red rose from Jeeves with one of the horrid green flowers. Unnatural, if you ask me. Flowers aren’t supposed to be that color. 

Still, one goes along with one’s friends, doesn’t one? 

Now, you might be wondering where the Fink-Nottle comes into the story, for I started before his arrival on the scene. Rest assured, dear readers, that Gussie figures prominently in this narrative. Gussie, you may recall, was one of those chaps who went to school with me when I was in short trousers. We’ve known each other all our lives, and I’d helped him out with a bit of bother over distributing school prizes at the Market Snodsbury Grammar School a few months back. That, and making sure his engagement to Madeline Bassett remained on the books. Didn’t want the business to go awry, did we? 

Not when Bertram W. was la Bassett’s second-choice suitor. 

He sidled up to me at the bar after an energetic game of Dinner Roll Cricket. I wanted to be the official on the field, but was voted down. Still, it was enjoyable to toss about the occasional bread roll or two. Gussie had the bit of green on his jacket that the other lads sported. 

“Bertie, I’ve got to get married,” he said, in as determined and firm a voice as I’d ever heard from him. “And you should, too. Engagements alone won’t cut it any longer.” 

“By all the blithering whatsits, what on Earth are you babbling about?” I asked. 

“Married, Bertie. We have to get married.” 

“We? I say, Gussie, old friend, what’s gotten into you today?” 

“Madeline is sick,” he said, and before I could comment on his erstwhile finance, he plopped a newt tank on the bar and nearly spilled my drink. “I mean, look at her! She’s barely touched her crickets.” 

I squinted into the tank, seeing the usual dark blur that I’ve come to associate with one of Gussie’s newts. “You didn’t give it one of these horrid flowers, did you?” I asked. Beside me, Gussie have a shiver. “Are you cold, old fruit?” 

“I can’t believe they’re making people wear these,” he grumbled, fidgeting with the flower on his lapel. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was tearing off the petals and dropping them to the bartop, leaving him without a flower at all. 

“I don’t see how a newt has you thinking of marriage,” I commented, going back to the original vein of conversation. Or is it vain? Or vane? I can never remember which is which. I’d ask Jeeves, but he’s occupied at the moment with my trousers, or some other kind of ironing and he dislikes being bothered during those delicate and stressful times. Something about having to redo creases, or some such rot I’ll never understand. 

“Her name is Madeline, you ass,” Gussie said, indicating his newt. “I’m engaged to a Madeline right now.” 

“Yes, I was engaged to her at one point, too,” I reminded him. “The same one, in fact, who still thinks warmly of me, if Stiffy Byng is to be believed, and that’s something I want nothing to do with. But, again, what do you mean about having to get married? Don’t you and Madeline have a date for the wedding?” 

“Well, yes, but I have to pass inspection first.” 

“Inspection? You mean from Spode? You did that already!” 

“No, no, from her godmother. Dame Something, of Something Hall.” 

“Oh, well, I can’t say as I know her, Gussie. You don’t remember who the godmother is?” 

“Not a clue.” 

“Or her address?” 

“Well, I wrote it down somewhere, but now I can’t find the paper.” 

“Ah,” I commiserated. “The old lost the dratted paper wheeze. I understand your dilemma, if dilemma is the word I want. No way to get there if you don’t know where you’re going. What about calling Madeline?” 

“I don’t know where she is, either. Some friend of her’s, Hellen, or Helga, or something.” 

“Why the rush to marry?” I wondered, thinking that a change of topic might cheer him up a bit. 

“We’re getting older,” Gussie said in a whisper, leaning close to me. “We can’t stay bachelors forever. People will start talking. They’ll say it’s not natural.” 

“People always talk. Besides, why would I want to get married when I have Jeeves to look after me?” 

Gussie shifted in his seat, moving even closer to me. “But that’s just my point, Bertie. You and Jeeves. Me and Marky. Those two down by Hyde Park, you know the ones. You can’t live like that forever. One of you is going to have to get married, and it’ll have to be you!” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Oh, not even _you_ can be that dense!” Gussie exclaimed. “You’re the one with the money and name. You’re the one who’s going to become Lord Yaxley when your uncle dies. You have to perpetuate the race. Of course it’ll have to be you.” 

“Now you sound like my Aunt Agatha.” 

“Bertie, you’re an ass.” 

I waved away Gussie’s insult. 

“All I’m saying, Bertie, is that you should be worried. Marky’s practically having conniptions every other day, trying to find a girl. Finding one Madeline can tolerate would be even better, but we’ll take just about anyone now. Talk to Jeeves about it. He’ll explain everything.” 

With that, Gussie grabbed the drink out of my hand, swallowed the lot, and disappeared into the throng of men waiting for luncheon to be announced. Unfortunately for me, he left the newt tank. Not that I was worried he’d forget it. Gussie would never forget one of his newts. But it was spoiling my digestion, having it so close, don’t you know. 

“What was all that about?” a voice asked from my other side. Biffy Biffen had just taken a seat at the bar. 

“I’m not sure,” I told him. I grabbed a few nuts from the bowl conveniently left at my elbow. “He was going on about how I can’t remain a bachelor forever. I’m sure he’s heard of Nature’s Bachelors. He practically used those very words. I rather suspect I’m one of them.” 

“Oh, pish tosh,” Biffy said, waving his hand. “You’re no more a Nature’s Bachelor than I am! You’ve been engaged. You were potty over that girl in New York, weren’t you? That artist with the weird name? And for a while it was looking like Florence Cray would become the new Mrs. Wooster.” 

“I just don’t think I’m cut out for the married life,” I mumbled. 

“You’ll find the right girl. Look at me! And look at Bingo, getting ready to settle down for a change. Did you know he’s been seeing that girl for over six months?” 

“He eloped a few months ago,” I told Biffy. “In New York.” 

“Oh, jolly good. How did his uncle take it?” 

“He loved her once he learned that she was the real Rosie M. Banks,” I said. “Instead of me. I’m not too much of a well-liked figure in Lord Bittlesham’s house at the moment. Bingo’s still friendly, though.” I went on the explain the whole sorry affair. 

“Huh. Anywho, what does Jeeves say about this bachelorhood of yours? Is he trying to find you a wife, too?” 

“Who? Jeeves? No! He doesn’t work for married gentlemen, and he’s very happy working for me. He said just the other day that I was like no other master he’d ever served.” I paused. “He said he’d work for me the rest of my life, if I needed him.” 

“But if you got married...?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve never really wanted to, once the engagements went beyond a certain point.” 

Biffy paused, then leaned close to peer into my eyes. “You _do_ know what Gussie means about being a Nature’s Bachelor, don’t you?” 

“Just some fellow not cut out for marriage, I suppose,” I answered. “What else could it mean?” 

Biffy leaned even closer and whispered in my ear. “He means _inverts._ ” 

“Oh. Oh, I say. Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure.” Biffy returned to his former distance from me. “I mean, I don’t care what he does in his private life, but to accuse _you_ of it? That’s not the same man I grew up with.” 

“Well, now, be reasonable, Biffy, old thing. He wasn’t accusing me of anything. He just said I should be careful.” 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Biffy declared. “We all know you’re in love with that Robbie girl. How’s it going with her, anyway?” 

It took me a moment to remember what he was talking about. Robbie… Reggie… Reggie Jeeves. He was talking about Jeeves telling me he loved me, way back in the beginning. And the boys thinking I’d taken “her” to bed by misinterpreting my words. 

“Oh, ah, well,” I stammered. 

“Jeeves still being cool about it?” 

“Jeeves? No, no, he’s fine. Encouraging me, actually. I just haven’t got the ginger to, well, seal the deal. Ask the question, that sort of thing, if you know what I mean.” 

“Oh, I know the feeling. What have you done? Does she really like you back?” 

“We’ve kissed,” I blurted without thinking. “Held each other. I’ve touched hi — her hair.” 

“That’s a perfect start!” 

“I daresay it’ll go anywhere,” I muttered. “It’s so — so — I don’t know. Nice. I have all these feelings. The ones we talked about, you know. But I can’t tell my aunts about her, they’d have epileptic fits.” 

Biffy grunted. “Your Aunt Agatha’s a demon in human form. There’s no way she’d approve of you marrying a servant.” 

“Especially this one,” I said with a sigh. 

“But she likes you? She’d run away with you, if you were to ask?” 

“She loves me, Biffy. She’d follow me anywhere,” I said, thinking of Jeeves cutting his vacation short because he missed me. 

“So elope, like Bingo did,” he suggested. 

“Would that it could be that simple,” I muttered as the luncheon gong went off. I thought about Gussie’s comments, about things Rocky had told me in New York, about the things I’d been able to glean about inverts from the newspapers and books. There was never a happy ending. Never. Besides, I wasn’t an invert. I just wanted to spend my life with Jeeves. To have our kisses and his companionship. To give him something more than a book on his birthday and an emotionless kiss every evening. 

But the kisses weren’t emotionless, now that I thought about them. They were full of emotions. All kinds of them. Just not the ones _he_ wanted. 

. 

. 

. 

When I arrived at home later that day in order to change to go out again, Jeeves met me at the door as usual. Before I could even greet the chap, he made a strangled noise in his throat and snatched the carnation from my buttonhole with such force as I’d ever seen from the man. He fled to the kitchen. 

“Jeeves!” I called, rushing after him, not even bothering to take off my hat or gloves. “Jeeves, whatever’s the matter?” 

I found him standing at the kitchen table, both hands pressed flat on it, his arms stiff. His breath came like a bellows, and he sounded almost like he was about to faint. I propped my stick against the wall and stepped all the way into the kitchen. 

“Jeeves?” I asked, touching his shoulder. 

“Who saw you with this?” he demanded angrily, crushing the flower in his fist. “Who gave it to you?” 

“Oh, um, well, Tuppy gave it to me,” I stammered, slightly scared by his anger. 

“Glossop,” Jeeves breathed, and I was close enough to see the anger flashing in his eyes. “I’ll kill the blighter!” he exclaimed, in rather more harsh tones than I’d ever expected from him. I’d never heard him sound so much like Roderick Spode than in that moment, and it scared me quite a bit, actually, to see someone so calm as he usually was as angry as he was in that moment. 

Roderick Spode, you may remember, is that gorilla-like specimen that haunts Totleigh Towers and sucks on the muzzle of his gun when interrogating invited guests about why they happen to be holding antique silver cow creamers. Ugly cow creamers, at that. Why my Uncle Tom wanted the bally thing is beyond me, but I don’t collect silver, so I probably wouldn’t understand. 

But all that is beside the point. Roderick Spode was of the habit of threatening this Wooster with the gravest bodily harm known to man, and at this moment, Jeeves sounded like he was getting up a head of steam to do such a thing to Tuppy. Not beating him to a jelly like Spode wanted to do to me, or breaking his neck, like Stilton Cheesewright threatened, or even turning him inside out and making him eat himself, the very thing Tuppy himself once suggested, but something far more dastardly and sinister. Far more permanent and deadly. 

Honestly, if I were a betting man, I’d put my shirt on Jeeves destroying Tuppy without a thought on it. A sure thing. A frightening thing. 

“Everyone at the club was wearing them, Jeeves. Bingo said it was Green Carnation Day, or some such rot.” He turned to look at me. “Everyone had them. Everyone at the whole club,” I continued, babbling, trying to reassure him, for even though Tuppy and I have had our misunderstandings, especially when one considers how he callously pulled back the final ring over the Drones Club pool one evening, forcing Bertram to fall into said pool in full correct evening wear, I still didn’t want to see the blighter die. 

“Who saw you with this?” he asked again. 

“Oh, well, that is, it was just — I mean, what’s the matter, Jeeves? You look quite the fright.” I paused, noting his heaving breath, his quivering nostrils. “You’re scaring me, Jeeves,” I finally said, taking a step backwards. 

“Do you know what this is?” He dropped the flower to the floor and crushed it under his shoe viciously. “Do you know what this means?” he asked, his anger now directed at me. “Do you have any idea what _danger_ you’ve put us in?” he growled. He turned away from me and tugged at his hair in frustration. I’d never seen him do such a thing, and that scared me even more that he was so out of control of himself. 

“For the love of roses, Jeeves, just tell me what’s wrong!” I shouted. “Snap out of it, man. Get yourself together.” 

“That,” he said, pointing to the mess on the floor, “that is a green carnation!” he exclaimed, as if that explained all. 

“I know _that_. But what does it mean? Why are you so upset?” 

“A green carnation is the symbol of an invert,” he snarled. “It was one of Oscar Wilde’s affectations. It was so common a token that a book was written about it by one of his literary competitors.” 

“Oh, my,” I whispered, dropping bonelessly into a chair. “Oh, my word.” I bent my head, lowering it to my hand for a moment. “I had no idea! I had no idea, Jeeves! Please, you have to believe me!” I grabbed his hands and tugged him close. “Everyone was wearing them, I just thought it was one of the usual fads that goes around the club every so often.” I wrapped my arms about his waist and pressed my face to his abdomen. I could understand his anger now, his fear. I had just walked into our building wearing the symbol of an invert on my lapel. People would suspect me, and thus him, for living with me, of being inverts. We’d go to jail. Our names would be ruined. 

I’d _lose_ him. 

Jeeves backed away from me as if burned, tugging free of my arms. 

“Jeeves!” I wailed, overcome with loss at his rejection of me. 

The doorbell rang. 

With a speed and efficiency only Jeeves possesses, he made himself up into proper valetting demeanor and walked unhurriedly from the kitchen. I followed uncertainly, leaning against the wall by the door so I could hear what was happening without being seen. The fear that the police had already come for us made my knees weak. 

“Telegram for Mr. Wooster,” said the doorman, Jarvis. I’d said hello to him not five minutes previous upon alighting from my taxi. He had to have seen the flower. Was he giving us a warning that he’d called the police, as happened so often in those lurid romances? Or had he come to blackmail us to keep Jeeves’s secret? Or to accuse me? 

“Thank you, Mr. Jarvis,” Jeeves said at his most polite, nothing out of place with his voice. “Was there something else?” 

“Actually, Mr. Jeeves, I’d have a talk with young Mr. Wooster if I were you. He’s got the wrong flower today, and I wouldn’t want rumors to start. Don’t know where he got it, since he didn’t have it earlier, but with his bad eyes, he probably has no inkling it’s even there. Wearing it for an hour or two, no one will think anything of it, him being so eccentric, but I’d have him be careful in the future.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Jarvis, I had already attended to the flower situation, however I will have the conversation you recommend directly.” 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Jeeves. We have to look out for our dim young gentlemen when they can’t look after themselves, don’t we?” 

“As you say,” Jeeves replied. 

I heard the door close, lock, and then Jeeves appeared beside me. “Mr. Wooster,” he began, but I interrupted him. 

“Are we safe?” I blurted. “He won’t spread rumors, will he?” 

“I believe that Mr. Jarvis was more concerned about your reputation than about the actuality of the symbol, sir,” Jeeves answered. “He believes you slightly dim, sir, an attitude shared by many ignorant individuals about persons who cannot see.” 

“Don’t I know that one, eh, Jeeves?” I muttered. “But we’re truly ok? There’re no suspicions about us?” 

“I doubt it, sir, however, you never answered my question as to who saw you wearing the flower.” 

“Oh, just the men at the club. And the cab driver. But I didn’t go anywhere else, didn’t visit or anything.” 

“Then I believe, sir, that we are indeed safe. It would not be the first time that the members of the Drones Club acted impulsively about something they did not understand. And if, as you say, all of your friends were wearing them, then there will be no suspicions towards you or your actions or character from the club staff.” 

I sagged in relief and only then started crying. Jeeves scooped me up in his arms and carried me, still sobbing, into the living room, where he deposited me on my usual side of the sofa. He returned with a cool compress and a glass of some restorative. 

“Here, sir, please drink this,” he said, holding the glass to my lips. Obediently, I swallowed. 

I felt energy buzzing through my system. My eyes bulged out of their sockets, the tears having stopped as suddenly as they began. Jeeves put a brandy for me on the table and sat beside me. Without speaking, he put his arms around me and pulled me half into his lap. I wrapped the arms around him in turn. He held me tightly, his nose buried in my hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly after a long moment of just holding each other. 

I raised my head to meet his eyes. I saw heartache and fear. “Too close a call, what?” I asked. 

He nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” 

I rested my head on his shoulder. He stroked my cheek and bent to kiss me chastely on the lips. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “I was beside myself with worry for you.” 

“I know,” I answered. “I know. But you’ll have to teach me the other signs. You’ll have to tell me, so I can watch out for them and avoid them. If all these dust-ups about my clothing were really about these symbols, you have to tell me. I don’t want to argue with you over something that can be avoided by a simple explanation, what?” 

He looked at me with a rather chagrined expression on the dial. “Yes, sir.” 

“Are you saying that some of them were about this kind of thing?” 

“Yes, sir. The lavender socks, especially.” 

“But I loved those!” 

“I know, sir, however lavender is a color often associated with inverts.” 

“Oh.” 

“Indeed, sir,” he said, trying to reassure me with his voice. “Though not all of our disagreements have been because of this specific issue, it has occasionally been a factor, sir.” 

“Well, you’ll just have to speak up about it,” I declared. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Are we back to ‘sir’ now, Jeeves, now that the danger has passed?” 

“Sir, I apologize if —“ 

“Just once, call me Bertram,” I begged. “Please.” 

“Bertram,” he said, his eyes shining. It was rather like the first time he’d said my name, when he first told me he loved me after our first kiss. Only there was more feeling to it, and I felt the heart all aflutter again. I had to kiss him, after hearing my name with that voice from his lips. We kissed, and kissed, and kissed some more, desperately, as if it were the only thing we needed in the entire world, until the clock struck the half-hour and we came back to ourselves. 

“Your telegram, Ber— Sir,” Jeeves said, rising. He tugged his waistcoat back into place and straightened his tie, then bent to do the same to my clothing, which had been mussed in all the moving about and the roaming of the Jeevesian hands up my back. 

I sighed, slightly miffed that he’d reverted to ‘sir’ so quickly. “You’d better read the blasted thing,” I groused, waving a hand. “It’s just going to be bad news.” 

Jeeves cleared his throat and began reading.


	16. Deverill Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie needs to go to Deverill Hall to protect Gussie's relationship with Madeline Bassett so la Bassett won't turn her eyes towards Bertie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an amalgam of bits from the Fry & Laurie TV show, as well as the original Wodehouse book, _The Mating Season,_ which deals with Deverill and its environs. Uncle Charlie might be a bit OOC, but that's to be expected in the sort of story I'm writing, isn't it?

“I’ve got it! I go down to this Such-and-Such Hall and pretend to be Gussie,” I declared, having come up with a corker of a plan to mitigate, if mitigate is the word I want, the terror of Madeline Bassett finding out that her fiancé was in stir for the next 14 days without the option. We all knew, as do you, dear reader, that when Madeline and Gussie have a lover’s quarrel and she gives him the boot or they part brass rags for some reason having to do with misunderstandings with parlormaids, newts, or Gussie’s spinelessness, she turns to Bertram W. as a back-up matrimonial prospect. And as I had as little desire to marry the pill as usual, I had to make sure that she didn’t find out that Gussie’d been arrested while wading around in Trafalgar Square fountain at five in the ack emma in full evening wear looking for newts. 

Jeeves coughed delicately. 

“What is it, Jeeves?” I asked. 

“If I might make an observation, sir, I think it would be rather irresponsible of you to pretend to be Mr. Fink-Nottle. It is, perhaps, a bit more elaborate than —“ 

“Oh, come now, Jeeves, it’s a perfectly ripe plan. Whatever could go wrong?” 

“I fear there are many things, sir.” 

“Such as?” 

“The butler at Deverill Hall, sir, a Mr. Charles Silversmith, happens to be my uncle.” 

“Your uncle, Jeeves? That Uncle Charlie you’ve mentioned a time or two?” 

“Yes, sir. On my mother’s side.” 

“But that shouldn’t matter. He’s never met me.” 

“No, sir, but I maintain a regular correspondence with my uncle, and he is aware that I work for you.” 

“So he knows my name. I don’t see where there’s a problem in that.” 

“If I were to arrive with you, sir, he would know that you were, in fact, my employer and not Mr. Fink-Nottle. It is not appropriate for a gentleman’s personal gentleman to fly, as it were, under false colors.” 

“Oh, well, that puts a damper on things.” I thought for a moment. “But you could stay here, Jeeves, see if you can get Gussie out of stir. That way —“ 

“Sir, while that idea had occurred to me, my uncle is also aware that you are blind.” 

“Oh,” I said, feeling like my idea had been punctured like a balloon. “Oh, I see your point. I can’t exactly go over there and say that Gussie’s blind, too. No one would believe it.” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“What if we pulled old Uncle Charlie in on the machinations, Jeeves?” 

“I fear, sir, that my uncle would neither appreciate nor participate in such a scheme as you have proposed. He has a rather traditional view on the actions of gentlemen and what is and is not an appropriate occupation for them. He would consider pretending to be a young gentleman other than yourself while residing beneath the roof of Deverill Hall most rude and improper.” 

“Bit of an old stogie, is he?” 

“While I would not go so far as to describe my uncle in those terms, sir, the meaning behind them is, perhaps, accurate.” 

“Hmm, we’ll have to think of something else, Jeeves.” 

“Yes, sir. I shall endeavor to come up with an idea that would be both agreeable and practical.” 

“Yes, well, pip pip, old thing. I’m off to the Drones for a snifter to strengthen the tissues after dealing with young Thos. for so many days.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

I might not have mentioned it, but my young cousin, son of the dreaded Aunt Agatha, you know, and scourge of the human race, had been staying with me for a few days before I delivered him to the train and sent him off to boarding school. Last night we’d been to see _King Lear_ at the Vic, hence my absence when Gussie and Catsmeat took their little swim in the fountain. Well, Catsmeat hadn’t swam, but he’d been there, encouraging Gussie on his search for newts. 

Needless to say, a man needed a bit of a bracer after spending so much time with a pestilence like Thos., and a man needed an even bigger bracer before driving down to a Hall somewhere in the country that was swarming with Aunts. Not his own Aunts, mind, but the idea of sharing a roof with five of the monstrous creatures rather turned the veins to ice, what? 

. 

. 

. 

“Mr. Bertram Wooster,” Jeeves said, announcing me to the staff at Deverill Hall who came to meet the car as we drove up. Neither of us had been able to think up a reason not to go, and Aunt Agatha had been in rare form when she made me to understand that my presence was required at the Hall and meeting the Gertrude menace. I shuddered. There was no way on Earth that I would be half of a ‘Bertie and Gertie’ pair! 

Nor did I want to be the musical accompaniment to a dratted local concert or part of a crosstalk ‘Pat and Mike’ routine where umbrellas were slung about with the intention of hitting one on the bean with them. Corky and I had once participated in a dance class together, and she was an Hollywood star with a rather lovely profile who’d once convinced me to throw a moldy orange at our dancing teacher when we were of the tender age of eight, but there were some depths, if depths is the correct word, to which this Wooster would not sink. 

“Good evening, sir. Dame Winkworth has been expecting you. My name is Silversmith,” said the butler as the footmen bunged the trunks out of the two-seater. I felt a moment of fear, as the man gave off more stuffiness and butlery vibes than ten butlers, which is more than enough to quell any right-thinking man’s spirits, but then I remembered who this butler of butlers was. 

“Uncle Charlie! Good to meet you, my man,” I exclaimed, offering him my hand. He shook my hand, but I could sense an uneasiness in his manner. A certain stiffness that I was to learn was habit with this old relic, who held by the traditional roles and tended to Deverill Hall as if the Great War had never happened to upset the social order. 

He didn’t like that I shook his hand. It wasn’t common that a visiting gentleman shook hands with the butler, after all, and I had called him by a nickname on top of all that. A familiar, _family_ nickname. I had a shiver of fear and hoped that the footmen hadn’t heard my slip. It wouldn’t do to upset the order of things in a grand house like Deverill by being careless. 

And, a small part of me whispered, we could be branded as inverts by my loose words. 

“Jeeves, I imagine you’ll want to catch up with your uncle. One of the footmen can help me dress for dinner.” 

“Sir, while I appreciate your generous offer…” 

I sighed. “Fine. Be stubborn. But I reserve the right to give you your night off when Uncle Charlie has his.” Unfortunately, the Wooster mouth hadn’t caught up to the Wooster brain, which was screaming in the dark about calling the man Silversmith and not Uncle Charlie. 

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said, slightly awkwardly. 

“We’ll put Mr. Wooster in the Belltower Suite,” Uncle Charlie said, loud enough for the footmen to hear where they stood with the luggage. “You remember where it is, Reginald?” 

“Yes, sir. However, I believe Mr. Wooster would be more comfortable in the Mahogany Room, if it is available. His condition…” 

Even in the dark, not being able to see, I could tell that Uncle Charlie was gripped by some kind of chagrin or shame or some other emotion that started with a shhh sound. 

“Yes, of course. We’ll put Mr. Fink-Nottle in the Belltower Suite when he arrives and Mr. Wooster in the Mahogany Room.” 

“Thank you, Uncle,” Jeeves said. “Sir, if you’ll follow me?” He offered me his arm and I took it gratefully. Staying somewhere called the ‘Belltower Suite’ seemed a bit thick. All those extra stairs and unlit halls my mind conjured up gave me the fright. Fortunately, the footmen knew their business and got the bags to the proper place. 

The room Jeeves suggested was lovely. Mahogany, don’t you know? Jeeves immediately started dressing me for dinner, even before the unpacking. 

“I say, Jeeves, isn’t it a bit early for the old soup-and-fish?” 

“Dame Winkworth dines at 7:30 precisely every evening, sir. I think it would be best to be on time.” 

“Oh, right ho, Jeeves.” 

. 

. 

. 

It was the next evening, or maybe the evening after that, after Gussie had managed to show up, during dinner, wouldn’t you have it, when I got more of an inkling into the inner workings of Jeeves’s private life. Dinner had been a disaster, between Gussie’s talk of newts and my jokes falling so flat. I have no idea what could get them so upset talking about chorus girls. Or the one about deaf gentlemen on a train. I hesitated about making the joke about blind men, but Gussie was failing so badly that I went ahead and tried it. 

It was at that point, when Jeeves leaned over to refill my glass that he tapped out _‘no more jokes’_ on my shoulder in Morse Code. I listened to him, of course, since he could see the expressions on the faces of Dame Daphne, as well as all her sisters and her daughter. I figured that if jokes were off limits, so were stories about the Drone’s Club and her members. It was a good thing, too, for when Gussie told the story about Boko Fiddleworth, his attempt at playing the fiddle, and his then-fiance Shelly Tinker-Thomson, Dame Daphne ended dinner with a curt nod to Uncle Charlie and some sharp words, so Jeeves tells me. 

Jeeves led me to the drawing room and left me there with the others. After an agonizingly slow few hours, I managed to extricate myself from Gertrude’s conversation and escape to the garden. I like gardens, as you may have gathered from my other writings. Not just because of the flowers, you understand, but also because they offer rustic benches where a weary gentleman may sit for a spell before returning to the den of vipers that was Dame Daphne and her family. 

I hadn’t been sitting there long, just smoking a gasper and contemplating the darkness, when I heard voices. Jeeves’s and his Uncle Charlie’s, to be precise. They were just around the bend in the path, hidden from me by a shrubbery. Or what I assume was a shrubbery. It’s all the same in the dark. 

“So that’s Wooster,” Uncle Charlie said, in a voice far less stiff and reserved than the one he’d shared with me earlier. The prerogatives of family, I suppose, if prerogatives is the word I want, to hear the informal side of a person’s personality. “A bit flightier than I would’ve expected from your letters,” Uncle Charlie continued. 

“He was nervous, Uncle,” Jeeves said. “He tends towards babbling when he’s nervous.” 

“What would he have to be nervous about?” 

“Mr. Wooster is not inclined towards marriage,” Jeeves answered. “And I suspect he was intimidated by Dame Winkworth and her sisters, not to mention his aunt, Lady Worpleston, who ordered him down here to woo Miss Winkworth.” 

“Young fellow like him, I don’t blame him with all that to deal with. And he couldn’t see their expressions, could he?” 

“That’s right. His ability to read the atmosphere of a room is somewhat lacking.” 

“He’s not stupid, though, at least. I overheard one of the footmen saying that he talked about literature with tolerable fluency after dinner. And the musical selection he played over the coffee was far more conservative than the melodies you’ve mentioned he prefers.” 

“He is quite well-read, by the standards of his generation.” The way Jeeves said it sounded like one of those compliments that isn’t a compliment, as if being a member of my generation was insult enough. I fumed. “The piece he played is a particular favorite of mine, and I believe he was attempting to indicate that he was able to ‘rise to the occasion,’ as the saying goes, and play music appropriate to the audience of Dame Winkworth and her sisters.” 

There was silence for a few minutes, and I detected tobacco in the air that was of an inferior flavor to mine. I presumed that they were smoking. 

“Are you in love with him?” Uncle Charlie asked rather boldly. I dropped my cigarette, and it was only by the greatest test of willpower that I was able to remain quiet. That and the hand I used to cover my mouth. 

Jeeves gave a sad sigh. At least, it sounded sad, like the one he’d given in New York when I realized how lonely he’d become. 

“I take it he doesn’t return the feelings,” Uncle Charlie continued. “Either that, or you haven’t told him.” 

“Uncle…” 

“Come on, Reggie. There’s obviously something going on. Just the way you look at him is enough to tell, for those of us who know you. And I remember what happened the last time with Lord —“ 

“Please don’t mention him,” Jeeves interrupted. “It’s totally different now.” 

“Then what is it?” 

“Mr. Wooster is one of those gentlemen without any sexual or romantic desire. He knows of my feelings, and was kind enough to keep me on when he intuited them, but there is no hope of anything more than a congenial professional relationship.” There was another pause. “He’s called me a friend, on occasion.” 

It was Uncle Charlie’s turn to sigh. 

“I had hoped,” he said. “When your sister wrote me about him, I suspected there might be a future for the two of you, since she seemed to think he would be that way inclined…” he trailed off awkwardly. “I never agreed with your father that being the way you are is a bad thing, Reggie. I’ve always wanted you to be happy.” 

“Thank you, Uncle, for your understanding. However, I _am_ happy. I am content. Mr. Wooster is a kind man and an excellent employer. He considers my feelings important, as you saw this evening when he offered to let me have the evening off with you.” 

“You’d better talk to him about that,” Uncle Charlie grumbled. “He can’t go around calling me ‘Uncle Charlie.’ It’s not right, and the other servants will talk. And if Dame Winkworth were to hear…” 

“I’ll speak to him tonight,” Jeeves promised. “But on to another topic, if I may. How are relations with Mrs. Pennygrave? You haven’t indicated that the wedding plans are going forward in your letters.” 

They wandered off. 

I felt a warmth in my chest at knowing that Jeeves was happy with me. Overhearing that conversations made coming to this blasted place worthwhile. Then I realized that I wouldn’t get my goodnight kiss while under Dame Daphne’s roof, and grumbled softly to myself. I waited a heartbeat before ankling around the shrubbery and following the path towards the late-night flowers I could smell on the evening breeze. 

I got lost in the garden. Jeeves was sent to look for me, but it took a while, as we were both moving in an attempt to get me back to the safety of the house. It was well past 1am when he tucked the duvet around my shoulders. 

“Jeeves, I don’t want to marry that girl,” I told him. “Can you think of some way to get me out of it?” 

“You might not be aware, sir, but Miss Winkworth has a suitor.” 

“That actor fellow Aunt Agatha mentioned?” 

“Yes, a Mr. Potter-Pirbright.” 

“Catsmeat? Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright? By Jove, that’s wonderful. All we have to do is reunite the estranged lovers. We’ve done it before.” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“I should wire him, bring him up here!” 

“I have already taken the liberty of informing Mr. Potter-Pirbright that his presence is required here. I inferred that there was someone else vying for her affections.” 

“The way Gussie’s acting, I don’t think that was stretching the truth. He’s got that dumb, doe-eyed look on his face, doesn’t he?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“But, still, we’ve got to keep Gussie thinking of Madeline, somehow. Did you know he hasn’t been writing her letters when he’s supposed to do it daily? And I’m not going to pretend to be him and write them for him, so don’t even suggest it. Besides, she’d know they were from me if they came in braille.” 

“No, sir, I think that’s best.” 

“You’ll think on it, Jeeves?” 

“With my every attention, sir.” 

“Good. Now about our evening —“ 

“I will make it up to you when we return home, sir,” Jeeves said, smoothly interrupting me before I could say anything inappropriate. His hand lingered on my pillow as he fluffed it, and if his fingers brushed my ear when he moved away, neither of us were going to say anything. I knew I had to be content with the small, subtle touches when we were far from home and safety. The incident with the flower still burned in my mind, as well as my slip the first evening calling Silversmith Uncle Charlie. I managed to sleep that evening without a night terror. 

. 

. 

. 

I got lost in the garden again. During the day, which was less frightening, but far more embarrassing. It’s one thing to act the clown on purpose, which I’ve been known to do with pleasure, even using my blindness as a prop for hilarity. It’s another thing to be incompetent, unable even to wander the grounds of a country house without losing my way. After a certain point, when I’d been trying to get out of the hedge maze for several hours, I just sat on the grass and cried. Fortunately, I’d recovered myself by the time Uncle Charlie found me. 

According to Jeeves, they had both noticed my absence at luncheon, but it wasn’t until I didn’t turn up for tea that people were sent to look for me. House rules said that none of the servants were permitted the grounds without strict orders, even the visiting valet of a missing gentleman, otherwise Jeeves would have been looking for me as soon as he’d been released from his lunchtime duties. 

I followed Uncle Charlie listlessly away from the hedges, so lost in my personal hell of humiliation that I didn’t realize he was speaking until he said my name rather forcefully. 

“Mr. Wooster.” 

“Eh?” 

“My nephew, Reginald.” 

“Jeeves, yes. What about him?” 

“He’s a good man, sir.” 

“Oh, yes, I know it! Never met a more clever fish.” 

“Fish, sir?” 

“Oh, er, ah. Fellow. I mean, fellow. Chap, don’t you know. He’s a very clever chap. Gets me out of the soup on a regular basis. Best man I know.” I babbled on for a little while about how wonderful my life had become now that Jeeves was a part of it, and how topping a valet he was, a paragon of the best of the profession, and all that, and then on to his personality, Spinoza-loving, Shakespeare-quoting, sparkling bits and all, until Uncle Charlie stopped walking, necessitating my own stillness. 

“May I be frank with you, Mr. Wooster? Reginald said that you appreciate forthrightness about important matters.” 

“Does he? Well, he’d be right. Frank away, Mr. Silversmith,” I said, deliberately choosing to use his surname to show that I understood we were about to have a serious bit of spadework. 

“I understand that you are aware of Reginald’s… inclinations.” 

“Oh, quite.” 

“And that you have not gone to the police or treated him differently because of them.” 

“Ah, yes. Wait, that didn’t sound right. No, no, I’d never do those things.” 

“You appear fond of him.” 

“Rather,” I said, grinning. “Very fond.” 

Uncle Charlie seemed to contemplate these words for a moment. 

“What are your intentions toward him?” 

I felt the mouth fall open to allow the jaw to swing low. What was he asking? And how did I get out of it without putting my foot inside my unpleasantly wide maw? “Intentions?” 

“As Reginald’s oldest male relative…” He trailed off even as I managed to catch the drift. I closed my mouth. 

“You mean, will I make an honest man of him?” I postulated. “If he were a woman, you know, which he’s not, but if he were?” 

It was Uncle Charlie’s turn to start. He didn’t do it as gracelessly as I had, and his mouth didn’t exactly open, but there was a sharp indrawn breath that tokened a strong emotion playing about the man. 

“He is the lodestar of my life,” I continued, giving Uncle Charlie a moment to refresh the expression. “Or the lodestone, if you will. I would not be who I am without him, and my life would be as ashes in the dirt were he to leave me.” 

I paused and took a deep breath, preparing to bare my soul to this man who, butler of butlers as he was, was also a man that my Reggie respected and admired. He already knew about Jeeves’s inclinations, and was concerned for his heart. It was only cricket of me to reassure him of my posish. on the green, so to speak. 

“I know that he loves me,” I said softly. “And I wish I could love him back the way he wants, but I can’t. He knows this. I believe he’s made peace with it.” I stopped again. “If he were to fall in love with another, I would give him my blessing and buy the figurative fish slice, even as it pained me to let him go. In the end, however, I want him happy. If he can find that happiness with someone other than me, who gives him what I cannot, who am I to hold him back from that?” 

“You say all this, and yet you affirm that you do not love him?” 

I ran my fingers through my hair, dislodging a leaf Uncle Charlie had been kind enough to avoid mentioning, rankle as it must on his sensibilities to be seen with a gentleman who had a leaf clinging to his person. “I love him in the only way I can,” I answered. “Fraternally. Like a brother. It’s like that poet says: ‘We came into the world like brother and brother; And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.’” 

“The Poet of Avon, sir?” If I didn’t miss my mark, he seemed tolerably impressed at my ability to quote Shakespeare. 

“Yes.” 

“You are a most unusual gentleman,” he commented after a long pause. 

“People have been telling me that my entire life.” 

“I think you have Reginald’s best interests at heart,” he added. 

“I like to think I do,” I agreed. 

We started walking again. In a few minutes we came upon Jeeves, who had also been engaged in the search. 

“Mr. Wooster, sir.” 

“What ho, Jeeves.” I exchanged Uncle Charlie’s arm for Jeeves’s. “I’m positively famished! Do you think you can rustle up something to dent the cavernous void before dinner?” 

“I’ll speak to the cook, sir,” Uncle Charlie said, and took his leave. 

“Are you all right, sir?” Jeeves asked once we’d made it to my apartment. He began helping me out of the outer layers in preparation for a soothing bath. “You went to the gardens directly after breakfast, didn’t you?” 

“Indeed,” I muttered, employing one of his favorite phrases. “Avoiding Gertie, don’t you know.” My voice was dull, as devoid of life as one of those stone rabbits Madeline Bassett loved. Clearly, I hadn’t pepped myself up, even after the conversation with Uncle Charlie and his seeming approval of my relationship with Jeeves, which should have had the Wooster spirits soaring. Jeeves made no comment, but I knew his eagle eyes could see the drooping of Bertram’s leaves like a plant who hadn’t had a cold one in days and needed a fresh pot of soil on top of it all. 

There was a knock on the door just as I slipped beneath the suds. Jeeves spent but a moment relieving the maid Queenie of her tray, and the scents of roast beef and fennel salad reached me. Jeeves returned to the _salle de ban_ and started washing my hair. I felt tensions bleeding out of me as he massaged my scalp. 

“Jeeves, this is heavenly,” I said, relaxing back against the towel he left for my head and neck. I could see the small smile that played about his lips. Golly, but I wanted to kiss him! “Can we —?” 

Jeeves bent even closer and pressed his lips against mine from above, forestalling the rest of my question. An upside-down kiss, it felt awkward, but sweet nonethesame. His hand stroked my cheek in that chummy manner he’d developed of late. I wanted to grab him, pull him closer, kiss him harder. But a gentleman doesn’t treat his gentleman’s personal gentleman like that, so I settled on just kissing a bit more. 

“We must be careful, sir,” he whispered. “But it seems you need some reassurance after the incident this morning, if I am not mistaken.” 

“You’re not, Jeeves,” I agreed, and he kissed me again. 

Between the bath, the snack, reading a few chapters of the current gooseflesher, _Murder at Graystone Grange,_ and the kisses, by the time I was dressing for dinner, it was an enthusiastic and cheerful Bertram who stepped into his trousers. 

“Oh, sir, perhaps if you could raise your trousers a quarter of an inch?” Jeeves asked. “One aims for the carelessly graceful break over the instep. It is a matter of the nicest adjustment.” 

“Like this?” I asked, showing the new lay of the fabric. 

“If you’ll pardon the liberty, sir?” he responded, stepping forward to tackle the issue from another angle. “There. Admirable, sir.” 

I sighed and held out my wrists so he could apply the cufflinks. “There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself: do trousers matter?” 

“The mood will pass, sir,” he replied dryly, moving on the the bowtie. 

I sighed again. “You enjoy making me look good, don’t you, Jeeves? Admit it.” 

“I admit to a certain level of satisfaction when my gentleman surpasses the others present in his attire, sir,” he murmured. “However, you are correct in that I enjoy seeing you at your sartorial best. You are a handsome man, sir.” 

“Perhaps I should arrange a trip to the tailor’s and haberdashery’s when we return to London. Give you free reign on an entire outfit for me. Is reign the word I want? R-E-I-G-N?” 

“I believe the word you are proposing is actually rein, sir, referring to horses. R-E-I-N. To give a horse its rein is to allow it to lead itself, rather than be led by the reins or whip.” 

“Well, I’d never go around whipping you, Jeeves, that wouldn’t be white at all,” I told him. Jeeves coughed. “I say, did you swallow a bug, or something?” 

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” He regained control of himself and held out my jacket for me. 

“But you’d like that, to choose a suit for me?” 

“Very much, sir.” 

“Then it’s settled. Once we’re back in London, an outing to the tailor’s.” 

“Sir is most kind,” Jeeves replied, the smile once again in his voice. 

“Nonsense. A happy Jeeves means a happy Wooster, B.” 

“Indeed, sir. Now if you will take my arm, I believe that was the dinner gong.” 

. 

. 

. 

“Remind me again why I didn’t want to come out here, Jeeves?” I asked as he drove us farther and farther away from Deverill Hall and my enraged Aunt Agatha. The momentary courage I exhibited in planning on confronting her after being inspired by Edmond Haddock’s rallying hunting song at the concert the night before wilted as soon as I heard her mutterings through the drawing room door. That and knowing that five other aunts lounged within. I’d clutched at Jeeves’s arm and begged him to get me out of there. Clever man that he was, he’d already had the chauffeur bring the car around front so we could leave like a lamb running from the wolves. Uncle Charlie would send our things on, he reassured me. 

“You indicated, sir, that you were not inclined to marry the young lady that your aunt selected for you.” 

“Right. Right, almost forgot about that part, it was such a side show to the whole rummy mess.” I sucked on my teeth and remained silent for a few minutes. “What I can’t seem to wrap my head around, Jeeves, is why the devil does she want me married so badly? I have you. I don’t need a wife.” 

“Yes, sir, however Lady Worpleston may, perhaps, be thinking of your future comfort and the idea that contracting a matrimonial alliance will give you someone with whom to spend your later years, while having children will provide someone to care for you when you are no longer able to care for yourself.” 

“But I have you, Jeeves.” 

“Indeed, sir, however as you may have forgotten, I am significantly older than you, and her Ladyship would not consider a mere servant as an appropriate companion for her nephew. If you were a maiden aunt with a female companion it would be a different matter.” 

“Oh, hush, Jeeves. I don’t care that you’re a servant. And we both know you’ll outlive me. You’ve got that Viking blood in you, you’re healthy as a horse, and you come from longer-lived stock than we frail Woosters.” 

“Sir, I —“ 

“You’ll stay with me, though, Jeeves, won’t you? To the bitter end? You’ll be by my side until I draw my last breath?” 

“I will endeavor to do so, sir, and yet, thirteen years is a most —“ 

“It’s you or no one, Jeeves,” I interrupted. 

“If I were to pass on before you, sir…” 

“Well, any old valet would do. It wouldn’t matter to me in the slightest.” 

“When you say, ‘it wouldn’t matter,’ sir?” 

“I mean that without you, my life would be over. Nothing worth continuing for, if you know what I mean. The body would still breathe, but the soul would have departed, as the saying goes.” I fiddled with the head of my cane. “I would pine for you, Jeeves. I daresay I wouldn’t last more than a week without you. I barely make it through your vacations, and I know you’re coming back.” I sighed. “I couldn’t go on without you. I know it. Just the other day I told Uncle Charlie that you’re my lodestone, or lodestar, or any other lode-whatsit you bally well please.” 

Jeeves slowed the car to a stop. 

“Jeeves?” 

He took the Wooster paws in his own. 

“Sir, Bertram, I — I promise, Bertram. I’ll never leave you. I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy. I’ll care for you when you’re sick and protect you from every danger. I’ll love you until the day I die, for I don’t think I could go on without you, either. I promise my life to yours, as long as we both live.” 

“Oh, I say,” I whispered, overcome by some strong emotion I didn’t yet understand. “I rather think I promise mine to yours, too, Reginald,” I added, feeling that to use his Christian name was only proper under the circs. 

We kissed, then, out in the open at the side of the road. We kissed, and hugged, and I might have cried just a little before he returned his focus to the road and started driving again. 

“Do you remember when we were last at Steeple Bumpleigh, Jeeves?” I asked a few miles later. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“We walked together on the grounds. You pointed out the moon and stars and quoted poetry.” 

“I did, sir.” 

“Could we do that again?” 

“Walk under the moon and discuss poetry, sir? I believe that could be arranged.” 

“Good.” 

We drove in silence for a few more miles. “Pardon me for asking, sir, but why the sudden interest in poetry? Have you become more partial to it?” 

“The truth is, Jeeves, I enjoyed it because I was with you. I enjoy many things when I’m with you that I never thought I would. And after what we just promised each other, well, I rather thought a stroll along a river or across a twilight field would be just the thing. Much better than a visit to the solicitor to update the papers to make sure you’d never be without, if I were to kick the bucket first. Though, remind me to do that once we’re home, would you? And find somewhere we could walk of an evening. Preferably with flowers.” 

“Very good, sir. I will ascertain an appropriate location for such an outing and see to the other matter.” 

I could hear the smile in his voice and it made the insides flutter in a pleasant way. I couldn’t wait until we were home and I could kiss him again. Real kisses, this time, sitting on the sofa where we could wrap our arms around each other, with a locked door between us and the world and an entire night ahead of us to do with as we pleased. 

With any luck, he’d pull out the Whitman and Housman and Lord Byron and we’d talk poetry while we shared kisses and a light supper with a glass of port to wash it down. 

. 

. 

.


	17. Literature at its Finest.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves catches Bertie reading some questionable titles.

I’ve always enjoyed braille, ever since I was a tiny little shrimp. I loved that I could read when others couldn’t. I loved the feel of the letters under my fingers. I loved that it was a secret code only me and a select few could decipher. 

But now braille was proving to be a bit of a problem. 

You see, Jeeves reads braille. He reads it rather well, and would have no problem coming up with the author and title of the book I have hidden under my pillow. Well, the one I _used_ to have under my pillow. I’ve since hidden it in a better spot. 

If he saw it, he would know what I was reading about, and that would be an even bigger problem. 

I may have mentioned in other writings that when I’d last been to France, I’d happened upon a club for inverts. Therein I discussed literature with some of the gentlemen present, and was able to go to a bookseller well-respected within the invert-society and, by spending quite a bit of moolah, order a few select titles to be copied into braille for me. Wilde, of course, to name the author with whom most people in our fair country would be familiar. 

I developed a correspondence with the owner of the little shop, and he sold me quite a number of titles over the years. I noticed a theme, however. All the books had to do with ‘the love that dare not speak its name.’ 

And they were getting fruitier by the page. 

He must have thought I was an invert. 

Well, if we’re being honest, I _wanted_ him to think I was an invert so that I could get the books, but that’s neither here nor there. 

I informed Jeeves that any parcels from that bookseller were not to be opened by him, but, rather, brought to me. He seemed to think this was odd behavior, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want him to know that I was reading up on inverts to gain a better understanding of him. 

_And possibly myself,_ I added in the smallest, most secret part of my brain. 

I kept the books in a locked cupboard, to which there was only one key. Now, Jeeves could have opened it, I am sure, but he respected my privacy and did no such thing, though he did evidence some small curiosity. I demurred and changed the topic whenever he inquired about my ‘locked’ books. 

I got careless one evening, as I was enjoying the book I was reading so intensely, that I didn’t realize Jeeves was coming into the room and could read over my shoulder. For he, as you might imagine, though he reads braille with his fingers as I do, could also read it with his eyes, and the light being what it was that evening, he could see the shapes of the dots and interpret the meaning. 

. 

_“…his throbbing member out of the tight leather riding breeches. Offering it to his man, Lord Bartholomew grunted in anticipation of the stress about to be released into the watering mouth of young Albert._

_“‘Suck me, Bertie, like you do so well,’ the lord ordered. ‘Suck me dry.’_

_“‘Yes, sir,’ breathed Bertie reverently, taking his prize in hand and wetting his lips in joyful…”_

. 

I stopped reading and shifted the book aside. I’d read the passage several times, and it was always at this point that I closed my eyes and imagined myself on my knees, pleasuring Jeeves, with my name Bertie on his lips. He would be standing right there, in the kitchen, perhaps, or next to the piano, and I would surprise him with my actions. But he would have been dying for my touch, so he responds quickly, and the taste of him — 

“Sir, would you like a —“ Jeeves broke off abruptly. “My apologies, sir,” he said in a stiff voice before disappearing soundlessly from the room. My cockstand wilted in my hand. 

. 

. 

. 

It took me a while to find him, for even though I had a small flat, he’d gone out onto the seldom-used terrace to smoke. His back was to the house, and me, and he seemed upset. 

“Jeeves?” 

“Do you require something, sir?” he asked in response, flicking his butt over the railing and sounding almost like his usual self. 

“I, that is, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Jeeves.” 

“It is I who should be apologizing, sir, for interrupting a private moment.” 

“No, no, Jeeves. No need to apologize.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

I waited a moment. He remained silent. 

“Did you, um, did you happen to see —?” 

“It is not my place to comment, sir,” he interrupted. 

“—what I was reading?” I finished. “It’s just that one of the characters has my name, and I so love seeing my name in print, and…” I trailed off. 

“Again, it is not my place to —“ 

“Dash it, Jeeves, I was thinking about you!” I declared loudly. “I was reading about Lord Whatsit and his man Bertie and thinking —“ 

Jeeves pushed past me into the flat, leaving me alone again. He didn’t even excuse himself. I followed, not willing to lose sight of him. 

“Jeeves!” 

He closeted himself in his room. I stopped in front of it and gave the door a good banging. 

“Jeeves! Talk to me, Jeeves!” 

I banged for quite a while, calling out to him every so often. After a good ten minutes, I let myself sit on the floor against the door, catching my breath from the exertion. 

“Why, sir?” he finally asked after a prolonged silence, his voice distorted by the wood that remained between us. “Why would you read such things? Why would you —“ 

“Like I said, the valet has my name,” I said, answering with the first thing that came into my head. There was no way I could put words to the other dark thoughts that were my real feelings. Not yet. I was beginning to desire him, or at least admit it, for I’d been dreaming dreams of desire almost since we met, and the thought of admitting it terrified me just a little. 

“You’re not an invert,” he replied. 

“No, no, I’m not,” I muttered, and got up. “Goodnight, Jeeves,” I said to him, leaving. “I’ll put myself to bed, no need to bother tonight,” I added. 

. 

. 

. 

Jeeves came to my room well past the time usually allocated. He should have been asleep. Then again, so should I have been, but I wasn’t. He took a step closer to the bed. I feigned sleep, and yet there was nothing to do but start when he sat beside me where I lay. He usually waited for permission to sit like that, even after how long we’d been on more intimate terms. 

“I didn’t get to kiss you goodnight,” he murmured wistfully, running his fingers through my hair tenderly and leaning over to kiss my cheek. 

I don’t know if he was surprised when I opened my eyes, or whether he was shocked when I reached for him, but he mumbled happily when we kissed. So much so that he consented to climb into bed with me, not something we did often back then. 

“I don’t know, Jeeves,” I said, having to say _something_ and knowing that I was always better at filling the silence than he was. “I just don’t know. I don’t know what love is. I’ve been reading those books to try to figure it out. To figure you out. What it means to be an invert, you know. What it is you do with each other and why you like it so much to risk your liberty… “ I trailed off, embarrassed. 

“You want to learn of the arts of love?” 

“I know I could’ve just asked you to explain it to me, but it’s dashed humiliating.” 

“Sir…” 

“You’ve refused to tell me things in the past. That’s why I talked to Rocky so much when we were in New York. He explained some of the saucier activities. He was rather bold about it, too, much better than these blasted books with all their flowery language. Must have thought I was an invert, asking about it, but he told me, nonethesame.” 

“You never told me this,” Jeeves said, a strange tone of anxiety in his voice. “He thinks you’re —“ 

“Oh, I daresay he thinks we’re lovers, Jeeves, or were about to become lovers. But no need to worry, he’ll keep it a secret, as I promised to keep his.” 

“Sir, the danger —“ 

“There is no danger,” I interrupted. “We’ve been together long enough and I’ve been engaged often enough that no one suspects. There’s nothing to suspect, after all, is there? Just a bit of kissing, a bit of comfort. Dash it, all my friends think I have a secret lover named Roberta.” 

“Roberta, sir?” 

“I call her Robbie. I made her up ages ago, and mention her every so often to keep up pretenses.” 

“But, sir —“ 

I rolled my eyes at him. “Jeeves, stop. We have come to an impasse, and we need to sleep on the matter to be able to move forward.” 

“Yes, sir,” he said in a soupy tone. 

“Stay with me until I sleep?" I asked. 

“Of course, sir,” he answered, shifting so that we could hold each other. 

Half an hour later, with sleep no closer, I ventured to ask, “Jeeves? Are you awake, old thing?” 

“Yes, sir,” he answered promptly. 

“Do you ever, that is to say, do you ever dream about me?” 

“Frequently, sir. Just the other night I dreamed that we were at Totliegh Towers, and —“ 

“No, I mean, dreams about just me. Just us. You know the ones I mean.” 

Jeeves paused for a long time before answering. “Does it matter, sir?” he finally asked. “You are the way you are. My dreams wouldn’t mean much to you.” 

“I still get nightmares about what happened when I was a child,” I blurted. 

“I know, sir.” 

“Sometimes you’re there, too, trying to protect me. Sometimes you pull him off me.” 

I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m glad to hear it, sir. I would always protect you, should you need protection.” 

“Sometimes you kiss me,” I whispered. 

“I endeavor to give you whatever comfort you require, sir. It does not surprise me that I would kiss you in your dreams.” 

“No?” 

“You must take into account the psychology of the individual, sir. Yours, in this case.” 

“My psychology?” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

“What does my psychology tell you that it makes sense that you’d kiss me in my dreams?” 

“When we kiss, sir, you become relaxed. It calms you. Your subconscious has taken that feeling and put it into your dream as a way to soothe the child-you, to give him comfort.” 

“But I’m not a child when you kiss me. I grow up, I think. I was a child, but once I’m safe and you’re there, I’m an adult.” 

“It is inappropriate to kiss a child, sir. You know that as well as I, more so, in fact. Your dreams reflect that knowledge.” 

“So you’re saying that these dreams are really about you comforting me after that horrible incident?” 

“I believe so, sir.” 

I snuggled closer to him, enjoying the feeling of his arms around me. He kissed my forehead. “Jeeves?” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable when you saw what I was doing earlier.” 

“Thank you, sir, however it was more my concern for your privacy and how I infringed upon it that upset me. As we have discussed on several occasions, I am able to control my physical reactions to such stimuli due to my years in service.” 

“Do you ever do that kind of thing?” I asked before I could stop myself. He stiffened. “No, don’t answer that,” I amended quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“You are curious, sir, about how those of us not like you live our lives?” 

“I suppose you could say that.” 

He paused for so long I almost would have thought him asleep, if not for the steady motion of one hand moving up and down my back. 

“Have you ever looked at someone and wondered what they look like underneath their clothing?” Jeeves asked. “Have you ever stared into someone’s eyes and wanted with all your being to feel that person’s lips against yours? Have you ever been captivated by another’s unique scent, so much so that you could smell it across a room and know your lover was near? Have you ever —“ He stopped. “Have you ever felt yourself stir with arousal at the mere presence of another person?” 

_Just you,_ I wanted to say, but I held my tongue. _Just you to all of it._

“Have you ever pleasured yourself with the thought of someone in your mind? Of their touch, of their heat, of their voice?” 

_Only you,_ I whispered to myself. _But how do I tell you? How can I get you to believe me?_

“Those, sir, are frequent occurrences to most people,” he finished. 

“And how does love fit in with that?” 

“Love is far greater than simply the physical reactions of the body. It can feel like a physical need, at times, the need to be near the beloved person, the need to hear his voice, or smell his aftershave or feel his hair under your fingers…” Jeeves trailed off, for his fingers were in my hair and we only just realized it. 

“Jeeves?” 

“I’m sorry, sir. I am overstepping —“ 

“No, don’t go,” I protested, for he made as if to get out of bed. “Can’t I offer you comfort sometimes, as you do so often for me?” 

“Sir, I fear that what would comfort me in this situation is beyond your abilities or inclinations.” 

“Because I’m not an invert, you mean?” 

“Because you do not feel the desire that I do,” he corrected. 

“I could kiss you, though,” I suggested, for I knew he wouldn’t believe me if I said I felt desire for him, not after all this time, not after my firm denials, and certainly not now, with what we were discussing. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him and _show_ him my desire. Only then would he take me seriously. 

“While I appreciate the sentiment, sir, I must respectfully decline,” he replied. He got out of bed, then, gave me a quick goodnight kiss, and left. It was ages before I could sleep, struggling with the thoughts in my head and the feelings in my body his presence created. 

. 

. 

.


	18. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie has realized something... and Jeeves needs to hear about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book by Havelock Ellis is real. _Advice for the Modern Gentleman_ is not.

Days passed. We fell back into our routine, the nighttime conversation lying low in our minds. Or at least in our daytime conversations. I thought of it often, though we never discussed it. I thought of the content of those books, and Jeeves, and myself, and wondered what it would be like to do those things with him. 

I didn’t tell him about that part, of course. It hadn’t gone so well the first time, after all, with him locking himself in his room and then leaving my bed in the middle of the night when I tried to bring it up a second time. 

He still kissed me good morning, and though our evening kisses were not quite as extensive as they’d been before the conversation, they still happened. I racked the old bean for a way to resolve the issue, but came up blank every time. All I could think of was kissing him. All I wanted was to kiss him. 

Well, and to try other things… 

I sat at the bar at the Drone’s, thinking of his lips. I stared into space during theatre productions, wishing he were there with me to hold me in his arms. I felt my body flush and my trousers tighten when talking with Bingo about one of Jeeves’s wheezes. I praised him extensively to Tuppy and Oofy when talking about horse racing, giving them a summary of the money he’d won for us. ( _For me,_ my mind whispered. _He does it for me, not for himself._ ) I mustered up the ginger and asked Biffy if it was normal to be so distracted by thinking of someone, and he poked me in the side with his elbow and commented that Robbie must be a very lucky girl indeed to have captured the Wooster attention so completely and when was I going to ask her to marry me? 

I left Jeeves home of a weekend and went to visit Gussie in Lincolnshire, but by the time I got there I realized I couldn’t talk to him, given how often he insulted me, old school chum, or not, confirmed invert or not. Marky, who liked me much better after Jeeves and I extricated him from the mess with my cousins, and was also a bit brighter than Gussie, took me aside one evening and asked what was going on because I wasn’t being my usual sunny self. (Gussie hadn’t noticed anything amiss with me, don’t you know?) 

“Nothing’s going on, Marky, my lad,” I replied. “That’s the point. There’s this _—person—_ you see…” I couldn’t continue, but he seemed to get the idea. 

His advice: “Get him alone and kiss him. You’ll either get biffed or kissed back. Then you’ll know for sure whether or not he’s interested.” 

“That’s all well and good, but what if it doesn’t _go_ anywhere?” 

“I’m sure Jeeves likes you,” Marky said, patting the shoulders to comfort. “I’d go so far as to say he’s potty about you. I wouldn’t worry about him calling the police, either. He didn’t for me, and you’re —” 

“Why are you assuming I’m talking about Jeeves?” I interrupted. 

“Who else would you be in love with? I figure that Robbie girl you talk about is probably meant to be Jeeves. I stayed at your flat with you, remember? I know the look on your face when he’s around. And I know the look on his. You might not be able to see it yourself, but that man’s just as in love with you as you are with him. You won’t get biffed," he added. 

“I don’t know how it could possibly be that simple,” I muttered. “And I’m not in love with him!” I added hotly. 

“Of course you are,” he reposted. “You’ve got that dumb cow-eyed expression on your face right now when we’re talking about him! Just try to wait. One day the stars will align and everything will fall into place.” 

It was hard to wait. I read my books. I dreamed about Jeeves. I partook in the Drone’s Club Annual Golf Tournament and lost spectacularly. I drank with my friends to avoid Jeeves and the saucy thoughts that followed me whenever he was present. I spent hours perusing the newest book, just sent over from France with its technical language and graphic descriptions. One evening, though, a month or so after the nighttime conversation following Jeeves’s discovery of my invert novel, the most spectacular thing happened. 

I briefly wondered if it could be the stars aligning thinggummy that Marky talked about, right before I lost what sight I had to an experience like no other. 

I returned to my senses slowly. First, I became aware of the feeling of languid relaxation that had overtaken the limbs. I noticed an unfamiliar sharp scent in the air. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, my breath coming out as a whoosh of contentment. Expanding my lungs in such a manner told me that I wasn’t alone in bed, but, rather, pressed against the naked form of — someone. 

It had to be Jeeves, I reasoned. I wouldn’t let anyone else into my bedroom, let alone my bed. 

I raised myself on one elbow and addressed myself to Jeeves. 

“I say, Jeeves, whatever that extraordinary thing was, it was rather topping, don’t you think? Splendid. Corking.” I rattled on for a minute or two, commenting on how wonderful the world was and how even better our most recent activities had been. “What was it we just did? I imagine there’s got to be a fancy name for it. I don’t think I ever read one in those books. Or did I? I’m not sure. What do you think?” 

I paused in my monologue when I realized it was more of a monologue than I would expect from a conversation with anyone, even Jeeves, who was often silently respectful as I babbled, though he always answered me. I rolled over and pressed myself against him. It was then that I grasped the fact that while I was completely nude, Jeeves was lying in my bed with his trousers down at his knees, his shirt torn open, his collar askew, and his hair mussed. He looked positively dashing. He looked like the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my entire life. He looked, if I were to borrow a word from those lurid romances, ravished. 

Even with the stars as the only illumination, Jeeves remained the most pleasing sight to my eyes. 

I leaned over to kiss him, for that is always what we do when he ends up in my bed, comforting me in one way or another, though this had been nothing like comfort and more like coming home. 

I came up short of the mark. 

Jeeves was crying. Silently, with a look of devastation on his face. 

“Jeeves? I say, Jeeves, are you crying? Whatever for?” 

I pressed a hand to the damask cheek, finding it dewy. He looked as if his heart had been broken, but how could that be? Didn’t he love me? Wasn’t this what he wanted all this time? 

“That, sir, I would call making love,” he whispered in a broken voice before leveraging himself up and out of my bed. 

I sat as still as a frozen ice sculpture in the North Pole. Making love? Had Jeeves and I just —? I thought back to what I could remember. 

Coming home from someone’s birthday party tighter than an owl on halloween… 

Not expecting Jeeves to be home, because it was his night off and I knew he had a fete at the Junior Ganymede, and smiling as widely as I could when he opened the door to the flat for me… 

Kissing Jeeves in the foyer of the apartment as soon as I heard the lock click… 

The familiar taste of sherry, strong on his lips… 

Jeeves removing my clothing as we continued kissing, the cloth falling into a pile next to my bed… 

Tugging at Jeeves’s tie, his collar, his shirt studs and cufflinks and belt… 

Dragging him on top of me, feeling his chest hair under my fingers, tasting his tongue in my mouth… 

Warm, soft, silky skin over a hardness I’d never thought I’d want to feel resting in my hand… 

Him kissing his way up and down my body… me struggling to return the kisses without looking the fool… 

His hands on me, like in my dreams, touching me all over… 

Stroking each other’s cockstands, and kissing, and rubbing against each other in such a delicious way, and making a mess of — 

By Jove, we _had_ made love! 

We’d made love, and Jeeves was crying, and — did this mean I really was an invert, to like it as much as I clearly had? Did it mean that I loved him? 

I must, mustn’t I, to do those things? To enjoy them as I had? 

I touched my lips, finding them puffy. My hair was in disarray. My stomach was sticky… 

I blinked a few times. The scales fell from my eyes. Sobriety hit me in the head like an omnibus. 

“I love Jeeves.” The words fell from my tongue without any hesitation. “I’m in love with Jeeves!” 

I had to tell him. I had to — 

Jeeves met me in the front hall, fully-dressed, with his valise in one hand. 

“You’ll find my letter of resig—" 

“Nonsense, Jeeves!” I interrupted. “You’re blithering. There’s no way you’re going to leave now.” 

“But —“ 

I grabbed his arms, making him put down his valise. I held his hands against my bare chest, clasped in mine. 

“I love you, Jeeves. I love you, and you love me, and I’ve finally figured it out, so you _must_ stay. Please stay.” 

I was close enough to see the incredulous look in his eyes. 

“I love you, Jeeves,” I repeated firmly. “I’ve loved you forever, only I didn’t realize it until just now, and —“ 

“Mr. Wooster,” he said harshly, his voice a mockery of the easy, respectful tones he usually used with me. “Please do not mistake a moment of drink-induced passion for love.” He refused to look at me or to meet my eyes, and that hurt even more than the absence of the usual kindness and caring. _Drink-induced passion?_ I asked myself silently. Was that all it had been for him? A mistake? A moment of error in a lifetime of correctness? 

I felt my own heart break a little to know that he thought of the culmination of my dreams as a mistake. I’d finally told him. I’d finally admitted it to myself, and him, and would tell the world if it were safe to do so. 

I’d loved the acts we’d performed and he regretted them. 

_Drink-induced passion,_ my mind whispered again. He’d never have done it without the alcohol. Is that what he was saying? 

As I stood there pitying myself he continued speaking. “I must go. I cannot remain here if —“ 

“But you still love me, don’t you?” I asked in a small voice. I felt like I was a child again, alone, just having lost my parents and needing reassurance that someone in the big scary world still loved me. “Jeeves?” 

“That is why I must leave you,” he answered. 

“But you promised you’d never leave me!” I protested, and I didn’t care if I sounded like that child, begging for him not to leave. “You promised!” 

“Sir, I was under the impression that —“ he stopped. “We just—“ It was dashed odd for him to have such trouble with words, but given the topic under discussion, it made sense. All I knew was that I loved him, after all, and even that realization was a new one. 

“What, Jeeves? Spit it out.” 

“Sir, the intimate act we —“ He broke off again, cleared his throat, started up once more. He stared at a spot over my shoulder. It was rather rude, but I couldn’t fault him for being awkward. I still held his hands to me, and though his body language screamed that he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, there was no way I would let him go. 

_Drink-induced passion…_ whispered the voice again. 

“You have said ever since we have known each other that you experience no sexual drive or desire for anyone, sir,” he began. “That you harbor no romantic feelings of any kind. That the idea of sexual activities repulses you. That when your body has physical needs, there is no thought of sex or sexuality in taking care of those needs. Knowing all that, I was able to kiss you as we have done, despite my love for you, knowing it would always be unrequited, but now… I could not stay here having experienced what we just did. I can’t go back to how we were after this. You’ve been so firm on your feelings this entire time —“ 

I could tell he was ready to go into some long silililo— sililoqua— soliloquy about why he couldn’t stay, so I cut him off at the pass. 

“Except you, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, desperately hoping that he believed me. I might have even squeezed his hands more tightly. 

“Pardon?” 

“I said, ‘except you, Jeeves.’ I desire you. I desire you so much it’s impossible to think. I desire you so bally much I can’t stop desiring you!” 

“Sir! This is highly inap—“ 

“No, Jeeves, sit down and listen to me. Yes, it’s true that I don’t feel that stirring most of the time. I don’t think of love or marriage either often or favorably. I don’t consider people attractive. But everything is different where you’re concerned. I dream about you, Jeeves. Dark, fruity dreams where we do all kinds of saucy things described in those books.” I waved at my locked bookshelf. “Sexual things. _Loving_ things. I _want_ to do those things with you.” I paused for breath. “I held you in my hand and _liked_ it, for God’s sake!” 

“But —“ 

“Last time, when we started the whole kissing business, I didn’t like it, did I? I shied away when you put my hand there, and you were still in your trousers at the time. I wasn’t ready for anything like that. But I’ve _become_ ready. Tonight I held you with bare skin on bare skin and liked it. I enjoyed it. I want it, Jeeves. I want _you._ ” 

We stayed there, him sitting upon the sofa, me standing in front of him, for what seemed like an entire hour, though, on reflection, it was but a few minutes. Neither of us could get any words past the larynx, and after a good bit of heavy thinking, I realized I’d have to tell him everything, embarrassment be damned. I moved to the locked bookcase and started handing him books. His fingers moved over the braille automatically as he read the titles aloud. 

“ _The Collected Works of Oscar Wilde,_ ” he murmured. “ _The Life and Times of Oscar Wilde. The Green Carnation,_ by Robert Hichens. _Sexual Inversion_ by Havelock Ellis? Sir, you can’t possibly have these!” 

“Well, I do,” I answered, mustering the Wooster courage, though the fear in his voice startled me. He was the one who told me about the whole green carnation business in the first place, and finding that psychology book was a bit of a coup on my part, as it had been banned for quite some time, and I understand that at least one bookseller had been prosecuted back in 1897 for stocking the thing. 

Thinking of the bookseller made me remember something. 

“I say, Jeeves, I remember something. That word I was looking for earlier. Frontage.” 

“Frottage, sir,” Jeeves said, correcting me automatically despite the strained situation. 

“Right. Frottage.” 

“Sir, these are very dangerous books to possess,” he declared, his voice chiding and worried and scared all at the same time. He started stacking them on the floor. “You could be arrested and sent to jail just for owning them!” 

“There’s a reason why I keep them locked, Jeeves, and it’s not just to keep you from seeing them.” 

“But they’re in braille!” he exclaimed. “Think of the —“ 

“Between my chum’s influence in certain Parisian circles, my money, and a sympathetic bookseller in France, there’s no problem. I’ve paid more than enough in hush money to last the lifetime of the woman who transcribed them for me.” 

“Your chum, sir?” 

“One of those inverts I met at that club in Cannes. I’ve been maintaining a correspondence with him, and he seems rather tickled to have a ‘blind English pansy’ as one of his circle.” 

“He thinks you’re —“ 

“How else was I supposed to get the information but pretend to be one myself?” I demanded, angry that he would doubt me. “You didn’t even know I was getting these books, or writing him, and for you to not know means I did a good bit of sneaking about and big thinking, didn’t it?” 

“I must admit, it hardly seems possible you could have kept something like this from me,” he muttered. “How did you do it? Why?” 

“You.” 

“Excuse me, sir?” 

“I did it for you. I did it so I could understand you. I did it so I could talk about it with you, if I ever got up the ginger to open the topic.” I tossed him another book, the newest addition to my library. A slim volume, only 53 double-sided pages of braille, it was probably the most important, and dangerous, book in my collection. Worse than the pornographic stories. Much worse even than the Ellis book. 

“ _Advice for the Modern Gentleman, Volume Two,_ ” Jeeves read. 

“Go to page 63,” I told him, rising. I paced back and forth smoking as he found the page and started reading. 

“AH!” he cried, dropping the book as if it burned him. “You’ve read this— this— this —“ 

“Anatomical discussion of the acts of love between two consenting adult men?” I supplied when he couldn’t finish his question. I stubbed out my cigarette. 

“Filth,” he corrected. 

“You want filth? Try that fruity novel about Lord Whatshisname and his man Bertie. Colorful language, lewd acts, more curse words than I’d known existed. The author must not have an aunt, to be able to write some of those things.” I picked up the book and carefully returned it to the locked cabinet, then started replacing the others. “Mind you, I had to develop a pretty deep friendship with my dictionary to get through some of these books, the carnation one especially with all that poetic language, and I acquired a medical dictionary somewhere along the line, but the facts are there.” 

“The facts, sir?” 

“I desire you, Jeeves. _You,_ Jeeves. Only you. You’re the only one in my entire life who’s made me feel this way, and it’s got to be love, for what else could it be?” 

Jeeves paused, his breath loud in the silence following my words. 

“You… desire me?” he asked, his voice low with wonder. “You actually feel desire?” 

“Yes.” I suddenly remembered that I was naked and blushed. I turned away from him, crossing my arms over my chest. “It’s dashed uncomfortable,” I added. “And it took a long time to figure out.” 

“And how did you…?” 

“There’s only so many erotic dreams a man can have about another before he cottons on to the fact that it’s not just suggestion,” I muttered. “There’s only so many lewd acts one can read about before he realizes that he’s put himself and his valet in his mind’s eye when thinking about them.” 

I brushed my fingers over the newest of my books, thinking of certain descriptions and how I would gladly give away half my fortune to experience those activities with Jeeves. I might even consent to go to jail, if I got to do that one particular thing described on page 63. He’d called it filth, but to me it seemed like the cream of the crop of activities, something one could only do with a person one trusted down to the very core of one’s being, as I did Jeeves. 

I felt myself begin to stir sluggishly, remembering the passage. 

“You… dream… about me, sir?” he asked hesitantly. “You fantasize about me?” 

“What we did just now, Jeeves, the tip of my bally iceberg.” I chuckled to myself, for the ice between my legs had turned to stone, warming as blood rushed through me. 

Silence. I felt gooseflesh come to life all along my arms and legs and gave a bit of a shiver. Here it was: Jeeves was going to reject me after all. He was going to tell me that he didn’t love me, couldn’t stay with me, and regretted what we’d just done. He was going to tell me that he was disgusted by my researches and revolted to know that I pictured he and I enacting particular activities. He would never consent to that one particular thing, and that desire of mine was more than enough to push him away, given his reaction. I felt tears gathering, anticipating the heartbreak that the only person I’d ever truly wanted didn’t want me back. 

It would be so like my life for him to reject me now. It would confirm to me that no one loved me, that no one would ever be there for me. 

Why was he so dashed quiet? Was he really leaving me? Did nothing I say matter? 

Jeeves, who had loved me for so long, stopped loving me when he found out that the feelings were returned… 

I lowered my head in defeat. 

. 

. 

.


	19. Confessions in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie has finally realized his feelings for Jeeves and told him, but now he's overcome by doubt. Has Jeeves stopped loving him? Will Jeeves leave him?

It was as if the sun disappeared behind the clouds, taking all warmth and comfort with it, even though it was the middle of the night with naught but starlight and moonlight to illuminate the room. The longer I waited for his response, the more morose I became, the more convinced that he wouldn’t return my feelings, no matter that he said he had them time after time before. Could it be some backwards way of protecting me? That by rejecting me and keeping me from being an invert he would keep me safe from censure and pain? If that was his idea, it wasn’t working. 

I would never marry. I’d known that all along, but now I knew it even more. He was the one for me, and I couldn’t marry him. He was the only one for me, and he wouldn’t have me. 

I resigned myself to spending the rest of my life in solitary misery. 

“Sir,” Jeeves murmured. I could hear from the swish of fabric and the location of his voice that he stood. “Mr. Wooster.” 

I waved a nonchalant hand. Or, I hoped it seemed nonchalant to him. “Say no more, Jeeves. Just do us a favor and pack my things. I’ll visit Lincolnshire in the morning.” 

“To Mr. Fink-Nottle and Lord Rainsby, sir?” 

“Where else can I go?” I asked. “They’re most likely to understand me, don’t you know. Biffy might be my closest pal at the moment, but he’s married to your niece. As much as I feel he won’t reject me for being an invert, there’s no way I could bare my soul to them. Mabel would tell your sister, who would berate you again for hurting me like she did when we were at Chuffnel Hall. I would save you that unpleasantness, if I could.” 

“But, sir —“ 

“I have to admit it, you see, that I’m an invert. There’s no other explanation. I might only have those feelings towards you, but they’re there, so I must be one.” I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my eyelids to keep the tears from falling. “All that time pretending I wasn’t. All that time pretending I was, to get those books. It’s all been for naught. Just promise me one thing, Jeeves. Promise me you won’t take employment with one of my friends. I don’t think I could handle seeing you after all this.” 

Silence. 

“I’ll give you an excellent letter of reference, of course,” I added. “I wouldn’t wish to effect your future employment.” 

“Sir, I don’t understand.” His voice sounded puzzled. Confused. Not something one would expect from Jeeves. 

“I say, Jeeves, I don’t expect you to sound so confused. It’s simple, really. You leave me, and I make sure you’re well taken care of. What more is there to say?” 

“Do you wish me to leave, sir?” 

I turned to face him, and though I couldn’t see his face or even read his body language in the dark, I knew he raised a hand towards me. 

“Of course I don’t want you to leave, dash it!” I exclaimed. “But you’re going to, and all I can do is make it as easy on you as possible, what?” 

“You think I’m leaving,” he stated, the ’sir’ noticeably absent. 

“Too little, too late, isn’t that the phrase, Jeeves? I didn’t come to my realization early enough and now you’re leaving.” I turned my back on him again. “My parents left me alone in the middle of the night. Why wouldn’t you do the same?” 

“I’m not your parents. I’m not dying.” 

“Thank God for small miracles.” 

“I’m not leaving.” 

“How on Earth do you expect me to believe that?” I demanded. 

Jeeves moved, and before I knew what was happening, he embraced me, wrapping his arms around me from behind. The buttons on his coat were cool, but I could feel his body’s warmth through the fabric of his clothes. It reminded me of the first time we played piano together, and how he’d stood behind me to read my braille music and how I’d stirred even then, knowing nothing about the possibilities of love or the futures open to us, knowing only that he was teaching himself braille to be a better servant to me. 

“You’re cold,” he whispered, his breath good and hot on my ear. His hands were just as hot as they moved along the skin of my body. His voice was so very tender… 

My hips twitched involuntarily. 

“Just a bit, yes,” I replied, my voice shaking. What did this mean? What was he doing? He held me tighter. 

“I — Do you believe me, Jeeves?” I inquired, though the answer didn’t really matter at this point. 

“About your feelings?” he asked. 

“My feelings. My sincerity. All of it.” 

Jeeves paused, thinking. I could practically hear the cogs in his head turning. “You’ve been trying to tell me for a long time, haven’t you?” he asked after a moment, his voice soft. “Weeks, months. You’ve been trying to tell me, and I didn’t see it. I was too distracted by your words, by my need to not see your feelings so I could get through living with you without having you in that way.” 

I felt tears on my bare shoulders. He was crying. 

“Jeeves?” 

“How could I have missed it?” he asked brokenly. “How could I have hurt you so?” 

“Hurt me? You haven’t hurt me!” I knew the lie when I spoke it, for the night had turned cold and dark, and the future turned to a scene of dirt and ash as he rejected me. 

“I didn’t know what you were saying, what your actions meant. We’ve talked so often about communication, yet we haven’t been doing it!” 

“Now see here, Jeeves. You can’t take all the blame on yourself. I didn’t have the words to explain it. I didn’t know what I wanted.” 

“But you know now?” 

“Yes.” 

We stood in silence for a few minutes. 

“Do you remember, Jeeves, the first time we played piano together?” 

“Of course I do. It’s the moment when I realized my feelings for you.” 

“Just sitting next to me, playing piano?” 

“Yes, sir. There was a certain intimacy to the activity. The smile on your face as we finished the first melody was breathtaking,” he added. 

“Really?” 

“I believe I feel in love with your smile first. I vowed to do my utmost to keep it on your face.” His hands continued stroking my skin, bringing goosebumps for a very different reason than the chill night air. “Then, when you offered to help me with braille… you were treating me as more than an employee, sir, and the warmth in your voice…” 

“You liked that, Jeeves?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Are we back to that again?” I asked sadly. “You calling me sir?” 

“It is a habit, sir, to address you politely. I will endeavor to maintain that language even during such circumstances as these.” 

“You don’t have to. I think we’ve gone beyond the need for it when we’re alone.” 

“As you say, sir,” he replied, his voice more stiff than it had been. 

“I really _am_ cold, Jeeves,” I said, no longer able to suppress another shiver. The thought of him leaving came back to me, and I shook like a leaf. 

“This will help, sir,” he said, putting his own jacket around the shoulders and assisting the arms through the sleeves. The broad Jeevesian coat swam on the willowy Wooster frame, making me feel a child and a fool. He twisted my body so that we faced each other. I wondered where this was going, since we hadn’t been this close since he’d left my bed. 

“May I, sir?” he asked. I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what he was asking. He drew me to him, his left arm wrapped around my lower back, his hand resting on my hip. He used his right hand to tilt up my face so we could kiss. As we kissed, he brushed his fingers down my throat, over my chest, along my ribs. My body twitched when his fingers stopped at the thatch of hair between my legs. 

“Go on,” I urged. I wanted his hand to move lower. I wanted him to feel my interest. Even if he was leaving me, I wanted him to know what he was leaving behind. 

“Are you…?” Jeeves hesitated. 

“I’m sure. Go on.” 

I moaned into his mouth when his hand closed around my manhood. Moving on instinct, I grabbed him, pressing our bodies closer together. He kissed me again, a deep, needy kiss. I lapped it up like a cat with a fresh saucer of cream and meowed for more. 

I didn’t actually meow. That would be undignified and below a gentleman of my upbringing. 

“Allow me to take you to bed, sir,” he said, urging me towards the bedroom. 

“Does this mean…?” Hope blossomed in the bosom, though the cold had attacked my body making me shrivel and shiver as soon as he removed his hand. 

“Bed, sir,” he repeated. 

Instead of breaking out the old pajamas, Jeeves bunged me under the duvet as bare as I was born. Soon enough, he had divested himself of the outer crust and was sliding in with me. I felt his body all along mine, practically burning me with its heat. It felt gloriously wonderful and decadent. Our legs tangled together, our arms around each other. 

“Jeeves…” 

He stopped my words with a kiss. 

“I have loved you for so long,” he murmured, tracing kisses down my neck, over my collarbones, across my chest. It was the same path his fingers had taken earlier, when we stood in the sitting room. “I have dreamed of this,” he added in a voice full of awe. 

“So have I,” I admitted. “Maybe not this exact thing, but a lot of others…” I trailed off as he grazed the skin of my neck with his teeth. 

“You have to tell me if you want to stop,” he said, his hands brushing my hair off my face. “You have to tell me if you don’t like something.” He returned to kissing my mouth. “Please tell me if you want to stop, sir, no matter what we’re doing. No matter how far along we are.” 

“I will. But I don’t want to stop just yet.” 

“Good,” he breathed. 

I sighed under his ministrations, feeling myself stir again at his touch. Pressed together as we were, I could feel that he stirred as well. I arched my back when he moved to that spot behind my ear. I felt his need grow against me. 

“Oh, Jeeves, I want —“ 

“Yes, sir?” 

“I want you to call me Bertie,” I said, gasping as he licked at my nipples. “I want to call you Reggie. I want to feel all those amazing things the books talk about. Everything, you hear? Every dirty little thing.” 

“And you will,” he answered. “Anything you want, I’ll do for you.” 

“Even that thing on page 63?” I asked in a small, breathless voice. 

“You want that?” His voice was startled, as if he’d never considered the possibility. 

“It’s not filth, Jeeves. It’s just another way to show love,” I explained. 

“Oh, Bertie, God, how I love you so!” He kissed me to a breathlessness of another kind. “My pure, sweet, courageous Bertie.” 

He’d never called me Bertie before. It sent a jolt of pleasure running through the frame. “Reggie,” I moaned. “Reggie.” 

“To hear my name on your lips like that,” he groaned. “You make me wild with passion.” 

My hands were moving over his skin, exploring the nooks and crannies of his body. He moved and thrashed against me. I thought about asking again about that activity, but his tongue in my ear convinced me to wait until a more opportune moment to reintroduce the theme. Something else occurred to me. 

“Just not the dresses,” I blurted. “I have no desire for either of us to don frocks and prance about.” 

He chuckled. “Of course not, Bertie. I would never subject you to something as horrifying as that. Nor would I ever be seen in such an ensemble.” 

“Oh, right ho.” 

We kissed some more, squirming against each other. I felt a deep need bubble within me, making me as wild as he claimed to be. As he was. I needed more than we were doing. I moved one of his hands to my buttocks. “Touch me, Reggie. Teach me. Help me.” His fingers slipped between my cheeks. He stroked the skin around my entrance. I felt myself tense up even as he did. 

“Not that, yet,” he said, moving his hand away. “We’ll have to work up to it.” 

“I want to do it,” I protested, trying to relax. 

“Not now, Bertie. I won’t let our first coming together be marred by those horrid memories.” 

“But we’ll do it?” I begged. “Because I want to. I want to do it with you. I _really_ want to!” 

“We’ll do it, Bertie, but not tonight,” he said. “Perhaps this will be more to your liking,” he suggested, his voice full of mischief, moving down my body to take my cockstand in his mouth. ( _Fellatio_ , the part of my mind that still had sense reminded me.) I jerked. I groaned. I thrusted. He stayed with me, one hand stroking my thigh to soothe me as the other held me steady so he could lick and suck. “You taste divine,” he said, releasing me. 

I lay back, panting. “Don’t stop there,” I protested, for he hadn’t brought me off. Now that I knew a piece of what was possible and how it felt… I hated that he’d stopped. 

He leaned forward so that I could see the grin on his face. “Only for a moment, my darling,” he said, and I pulled him down for a kiss. He’d called me his darling! 

“You’ve touched yourself, yes?” he asked, pulling away. I nodded, even though he’d caught me doing it once and probably didn’t need me to answer. “Do that for me now, but don’t take it to the end. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

He left me then, pulling on his trousers and putting his shirt about his shoulders, holding it closed as he left the bedroom. I waited impatiently, stroking myself as he’d told me. It was the oddest thing. Now that I’d decided I wanted him, now that I’d confessed all and been accepted, I wanted everything. I wanted to do all those lewd, sexual things I’d been reading about. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to love him in as many ways as possible. 

I wanted to open myself for him and forever banish the traumas of my childhood with him inside me. 

Jeeves returned some minutes later, naked under his dressing gown, with an earthenware pot of some kind in his hand. He set it beside the bed on the little table. 

He sat down and regarded me carefully. He touched my cheek. “You want this?” he asked. “You truly wish to make love with me?” 

“You said long ago that you were keeping yourself celibate until you found someone to spend your life with,” I replied, the sober tone of his voice making me serious. And nervous. I let go of myself, for I was flagging a bit and didn’t want him to see. “Someone you could trust. You and I have already promised to spend our lives together, to stay together until the end. I trust you with more than my life. I would never do anything to betray you. I would do everything in my power to protect you. It all makes me wonder, could I be that man for you?” I paused, reaching over to take his free hand and intertwine our fingers. “Could I be your lover? Could you be mine?” 

“I would be honored,” he said. 

“We’ll have to figure out some practical things, I’m sure, but you’re good at that, what? You’ll help me navigate those waters. For now, get back in bed and show me what real love is all about.” 

“Yes, Bertie,” he said, rejoining me under the sheets. 

It didn’t take long for the kissing and touching to reawaken the slumbering giants between our legs. Jeeves rolled to his back and placed me on top of him, between his legs. My hips slotted against his, and our cockstands rubbed against each other. It was a most pleasing sensation, but we’d already done that earlier and I wanted something new. I told him so. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing myself,” he said, shifting me. “If I may touch you?” 

“Of course, dear thing,” I replied, giving him a kiss. 

His hands were cool on my member, perhaps because of the jelly he applied so liberally. He positioned me carefully. “You must go slowly,” he cautioned. “It’s been a long time.” 

“It’s been my whole life,” I reminded him, taking hold of myself to help steady me as I moved. (The books had all indicated this was proper and was often required, especially when figuring out the geometry with a new partner, so I didn’t feel _too_ self-conscious about doing such a bold thing. Now, with years of such acts of physical intimacy between us, I blush to remember my quiet embarrassment of that night.) 

He closed his eyes and breathed as I slowly breached him. Once I was fully seated, he let out a large sigh and opened his eyes. They were sparkling. I felt like my head was about to melt. 

“Bertie,” he breathed. 

“Reggie,” I answered. 

My body knew what to do, it seemed, and after a few fumbles, we really got into it. 

. 

. 

.


	20. Happy Endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie wakes after a night with Jeeves, but was it real?

The next time I woke, I found myself alone in bed, dressed in heliotrope pajamas, all evidence of the evening’s activities gone from the room. There were even fresh sheets on the bed and flowers by the wardrobe to mask any lingering scent. How Jeeves had managed all of this without waking me made me scratch the coconut. I hadn’t been that tipsy when we fell into an exhausted sleep, nor was I usually such a sound sleeper as to miss him moving about the limbs to such an extent. Or was I? Maybe he did things like this all the time and I wasn’t aware of it. 

I was just sitting up with a frown when Jeeves entered, in full uniform, with a restorative and a cup of tea on a silver salver. 

“Good morning, Mr. Wooster,” he said at his most formal. “Lady Worpleston bids me —“ 

“Aunt Agatha?” I shouted, feeling all color drain from my face. 

“Oh, do stop making such a racket,” the aged relative said, storming into the room. “Jeeves, I told you to make him presentable,” she added in a sharp tone. 

“Oi! Don’t go ordering him around,” I barked, my back already stiff from anger. And movement. My head hurt, the eyes could see less than usual, and I felt as if I’d run a dratted marathon. I reached out my hand and Jeeves handed me the restorative rather than give me his arm to squeeze. I had the urge to pout. 

“Bertie!” Aunt Agatha replied. “Do not speak to your elders in that tone of voice!” 

“I’ll speak to you however I dashed well please,” I retorted after the usual convulsions elicited from Jeeves’s concoction were completed. “You’ve just woken me up!” 

“That is no excuse for being rude,” she declared. “Get him dressed, Jeeves. And do something about those flowers. The smell is far too cloying to be healthy.” 

“Yes, m’lady,” Jeeves said, following her to the bedroom door and closing it behind her. 

I sat still, not moving, my head down. I felt like the world had ended, with a morning of Aunt Agatha to look forward to and Jeeves as formal as he could possibly be. Had I dreamed last night? _Please,_ I begged silently. _Please let it be real and not just another of those dashed dreams._ Jeeves’s hand on the top of my head startled me. His touch was light as he ran his fingers through my hair, and I raised my face to look up at him. It could almost convince me it wasn’t a dream, but it wasn’t enough, not with him calling me Mr. Wooster. 

“I will draw your bath, sir,” he said softly, leaving me alone to tend to that task. I sighed. Not even a good morning kiss. We usually kissed in the mornings, and now we’d become lovers in the night, and no kiss. 

It must have been a dream, for why else would he act so cooly towards me? 

Jeeves made a small noise of disapproval when he returned, rushing to my side. “Please don’t cry, Bertie,” he whispered urgently. “I wanted to stay with you, but something told me that I mustn’t.” 

“A premonition of evil?” I asked, touching the Jeevesian hand that rested on my cheek. 

“I don’t know, but your aunt rang to say she was coming to call on you before eight o’clock. I’m only thankful I awoke at my usual time and thought to go about my usual activities.” 

“I didn’t think there _was_ a before eight o’clock,” I grumbled, allowing him to escort me to the bathroom and get into the tub with a peck on the lips to reassure me of his continued regard. 

Jeeves saw to my clothing while I bathed hurriedly, then dressed me in the proper suit for greeting an aunt before one has had one’s breakfast. After distributing the darjeeling, he biffed off, leaving me alone with an aunt who danced on the bones of her nephews on the night of a full moon and wore barbed wire close to the skin. 

“Well,” I asked. “What has you here so dashed early that the birds aren’t even aflight yet?” 

“Oh, do stop your melodramatics,” she responded. “Bertie, I’ve found just the perfect girl for you to marry…” 

. 

. 

. 

The nightmare startled me with its accuracy about the possibilities of my life, and yet I didn’t wake in a cold sweat or with a scream on my lips. 

I awoke to find Jeeves still in bed with me, warming me, keeping me safe. He was sound asleep, snoring, don’t you know, and absolutely beautiful. I thought about everything we had done the night before, about all the promises and declarations of love. I felt a tingle throughout my body, remembering how it felt to be inside him, to kiss him, to bring him pleasure. I felt more alive than I’d ever felt in my entire life. 

Nightmare be damned, I was in bed with the man I loved, and I was going to enjoy every second of it! 

Jeeves made a snuffling sound, shifting to burrow his face against my shoulder. After a long moment of peace, he shot up in bed, practically tearing the covers off me as he went. 

“Relax, dear Reggie,” I said, moving to touch him. “Everything’s fine.” I rubbed his back and arm. 

“It’s past seven!” he exclaimed, having grabbed the bedside clock. He ran his fingers through his wonderfully disheveled hair. “How could I have slept so long?” 

“So long? What do you mean, so long? My word, I got home at two, and we were up for hours after that! Do you really get up before seven?” 

“I wake every morning at 5:30 precisely, sir,” he answered, the stuffed frog expression in his voice. He rubbed his chest and looked down at himself, finding himself naked. Then he looked over at me. I could practically feel the tension of his body as he recalled the night before. “Is this real?” he finally asked. 

“As real as my Aunt Agatha is a she-demon,” I answered. I cuddled around him, hoping to warm myself against his skin after the blanket-throwing incident. I ran my fingers through his chest hair and kissed the spot over his heart. “I love you, old thing. I want you. The daylight hasn’t altered that resolution.” I let my fingers play across his skin. 

Slowly, he relaxed against me and took me in his arms. “This is real,” he murmured. He kissed the top of my head with an absent air. “I’m not dreaming.” 

“Not unless I’m dreaming, too.” 

“You’re not scared?” 

“I’m bally well terrified,” I said immediately. “Not of you, darling,” I hurried to add. “But I’ve just taken the first steps down the invert’s road, haven’t I?” 

Jeeves began laughing, a hearty belly-laugh I never thought to hear from him. “My love, you’ve been on the road ever since you returned that first kiss of mine on the sofa,” he said, struggling to control himself. 

I felt my cheeks heat. “Well, I mean, that is to say, um…” 

“I never thought it would come to anything,” he continued, pulling me down to lay beside him. He returned the blankets to their former places about our bodies. “I never thought I would actually awaken in your bed after a night of passion.” 

“Perhaps we should make it a day of passion, then, too, just so I can convince you of my dedication to this path?” I suggested. “I don’t have to be anywhere today.” 

“No, sir, but I need to be available should someone call on you.” 

“We’re not home, Jeeves. Just make sure it’s locked and ignore the door. For now, be my Reggie again.” 

“As you wish, Bertie,” he murmured, kissing me heartily. 

. 

. 

. 

~Fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading and enjoying my journey down the road of this story. I appreciate all the kudos, comments and bookmarks. Good writing to you all!


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